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Frontispiece 


THE     PARISIANS 


BY 

EDWARD    BULWER,  LORD  LYTTON. 


CHICAGO   AND   NEW  YORK  : 

BELFOPtD,  CLARKE  &   COMPANY, 
Publishers. 


TROWa 
PRINTING  AND  GOOKBrNOlNQ  COMPANY, 

NEW   YORK. 


PREFATORY   NOTE. 


Cby  the  author's  son.) 


"  The  Parisians  "  and  "  Kenelm  Chillingly"  were  begun 
about  the  same  time,  and  had  their  common  origin  in  the  same 
central  idea.  That  idea  first  found  fantastic  expression  in 
"  The  Coming  Race  ;  "  and  the  three  books,  taken  together, 
constitute  a  special  group,  distinctly  apart  from  all  the  other 
woiks  of  their  author. 

The  satire  of  his  earliest  novels  is  a  protest  against  false 
social  respectabilities  ;  the  humor  of  his  later  ones  is  a  protest 
against  the  disrespect  of  social  realities,  By  the  first  he  sought 
to  promote  social  sincerity  and  the  free  play  of  personal  char- 
acter ;  by  the  last,  to  encourage  mutual  charity  and  sympathy 
among  all  classes  on  whose  inter-relation  depends  the  character 
of  society  itself.  But  in  these  three  books,  his  latest  fictions, 
the  moral  purpose  is  more  d-efinite  and  exclusive.  Each  of 
them  is  an  expostulation  against  what  seemed  to  him  the  peril- 
ous popularity  of  certain  social  and  political  theories,  or  a  warn- 
ing against  the  influence  of  certain  intellectual  tendencies  upon 
individual  character  and  national  life.  This  purpose,  however, 
though  common  to  the  three  fictions,  is  worked  out  in  each  of- 
them  by  a  different  method.  "  The  Coming  Race  "  is  a  work 
of  pure  fancy,  and  the  satire  of  it  is  vague  and  sportive.  The 
outlines  of  a  definite  purpose  are  more  distinctly  drawn  in 
"  Chillingly  " — a  romance  which  has  the  source  of  its  effect  in  a 
highly-wrought  imagination.  The  humor  and  pathos  of  "  Chil- 
ingly "  are  of  a  kind  incompatible  with  the  design  of  "  The 
Parisians,"  which  is  a  work  of  dramatic  observation.  *  Chil 
lingly"  is  a  Romance  ;  "The  Parisians  "  is  a  Novel.  The  sub- 
ject of  "  Chillingly  "  is  psychological  ;  that  of  "  The  Parisians  " 
is  social.     The  author's  object  in  "  Chillingly  "  being  to  illus- 


4  PRE  FA  TOR  V  NO  TE. 

trate  the  effect  of  "  modern  "  ideas  upon  an  individual  char- 
acter, he  has  contined  his  narrative  to  the  biography  of  that  one 
character.  Hence  the  simphcity  of  plot  and  the  small  number 
of  dramaiis  pcrsojice  ;  whereby  the  work  gains  in  height  and 
depth  what  it  loses  in  breadth  of  surface.  '•  The  Parisians," 
on  the  contrary,  is  designed  to  illustrate  the  effect  of  "  modern 
ideas  "  upon  a  whole  community.  This  novel  is  therefore  pano- 
ramic in  the  profusion  and  variety  of  figures  presented  by  it  to  the 
reader's  imagination.  No  exclusive  prominence  is  vouchsafed  to 
any  of  these  figures.  All  of  them  are  drawn  and  colored  with 
an  equal  care,  but  by  means  of  the  bold  broad  touches  neces- 
sary for  their  effective  presentation  on  a  canvas  so  large  and 
so  crowded.  Such  figures  are,  indeed,  but  the  component 
features  of  one  great  Form,  and  their  actions  only  so  many 
modes  of  one  collective  impersonal  character,  that  of  the  Paris- 
ian Society  of  Imperial  and  Democratic  France  ;  a  character 
everywhere  present  and  busy  throughout  the  story,  of  which  \^ 
is  the  real  hero  or  heroine,  This  society  was  doubtless  selectetl 
for  characteristic  illustration  as  being  the  most  advanced  in  the 
progress  of  "  modern  ideas."  Thus  for  a  complete  perception 
of  its  writer's  fundamental  purpose,  "The  Parisians"  should 
be  read  in  connection  with  "  Chillingly,"  and  these  two  books 
in  connection  with  "The  Coming  Race."  It  will  then  be 
perceived  that,  through  the  medium  of  alternate  fancy,  senti- 
timent,  and  observation,  assisted  by  humor  and  passion,  these 
three  books  (in  all  other  respects  so  different  from  each  other) 
complete  the  presentation  of  the  same  purpose  under  different 
aspects,  and  thereby  constitute  a  group  of  fictions  which  claims 
a  separate  place  of  its  own  in  any  thoughtful  classification  of 
their  author's  works. 

One  last  word  to  those  who  will  miss  from  these  pages  the 
connecting  and  completing  touches  of  the  master's  hand.*  It 
may  be  hoped  that  such  a  disadvantage,  though  irreparable,  is 
somewhat  mitigated  by  the  essential  character  of  the  work 
itself.  The  aesthetic  merit  of  this  kind  of  novel  is  in  the  vivacity 
of  a  general  effect  produced  by  large  swift  strokes  of  charac- 
ter ;  and  in  such  strokes,  if  they  be  by  a  great  artist,  force 
and  freedom  of  style  must  still  be  apparent,  even  when  they 
are  left  rough  and  unfinished.  Nor  can  any  lack  of  final 
verbal  correction  much  diminish  the  intellectual  value  which 
many  of  the  more  thoughtful  passages  of  the  present  work 
derive   from    a    long,    keen,    and   practical  study  of  political 

*  See  also  Note  by  the  Author's  Son,  p.  174,  vol.  iii. 


PREFA  rOK  Y  NO  TE.  5 

phenomena,  guided  by  personal  experience  of  public  life,  and 
enlightened  by  a  large,  instinctive  knowledge  of  the  human 
heart. 

Such  a  belief  is,  at  least,  encouraged  by  the  private  com- 
munications spontaneously  made,  to  him  who  expresses  it,  by 
persons  of  political  experience  and  social  position  in  France  ; 
who  have  acknowledged  the  general  accuracy  of  the  author's 
descriptions,  and  noticed  the  suggestive  sagacity  and  penetra- 
tion of  his  occasional  comments  on  the  circumstances  and  sen- 
timents he  describes. 

It  only  remains  to  discharge  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  Messrs. 
Blackwood  by  thus  publicly  acknowledging  the  careful  and 
scrupulous  attention  they  have  given  to  the  printing  of  this 
book,  and  the  efforts  made  by  them,  under  exceptionally  dif- 
ficult conditions,  to  present  to  their  readers  in  the  best  possi 
ble  form,  this,  the  last  of  that  long  list  of  well-known  fictions, 
which  throughout  every  region  of  Europe  and  America  have  now 
for  so  many  years  associated  their  name  with  that  of  its  author. 


THE  PARISIANS. 


INTRODUCTORY  CHAPTER. 

They  who  chance  to  have  read  the  "  Coming  Race  "  may 
perhaps  remember  that  I,  the  adventurous  discoverer  of  the 
land  without  a  sun,  concluded  the  sketch  of  my  adventures  by 
a  brief  reference  to  the  malady  which,  though  giving  no  per- 
ceptible notice  of  its  encroachments,  might,  in  the  opinion  of 
my  medical  attendant,  prove  suddenly  fatal, 

1  had  brought  my  little  book  to  its  somewhat  melancholy  close 
a  few  years  before  the  date  of  its  publication,  and,  in  the  mean- 
while, I  was  induced  to  transfer  my  residence  to  Paris,  in  order 
to  place  myself  under  the  care  of  an  English  physician,  re- 
nowned for  his  successful  treatment  of  complaints  analogous  to 
my  own, 

I  was  the  more  readily  persuaded  to  undertake  this  journey, 
partly  because  I  enjoyed  a  familiar  acquaintance  with  the  em- 
inent physician  referred  to,  who  had  commenced  his  career 
and  founded  his  reputation  in  the  United  States,  partly  because 
I  had  become  a  solitary  man,  the  ties  of  home  broken,  and 
dear  friends  of  mine  were  domiciled  in  Paris,  with  whom  I 
should  be  sure  of  tender  sympathy  and  cheerful  companionship. 
I  had  reason  to  be  thankful  for  this  change  of  residence  :  the 

skill  of  Dr.  C soon  restored  me  to  health.     Brought  much 

into  contact  with  various  circles  of  Parisian  society,  I  became 
acquainted  with  the  persons,  and  a  witness  of  the  events,  that 
form  the  substance  of  the  tale  I  am  about  to  submit  to  the 
public,  which  has  treated  my  former  book  with  so  generous  an 
indulgence.     Sensitively  tenacious  of  that  character  for  strict 


g  THE  PARISIANS. 

and  unalloyed  veracity  which,  I  flatter  mj'self,  my  account  of 
the  abodes  and  manners  of  the  Vril-ya  has  established,  I  could 
have  wished  to  preserve  the  following  narrative  no  less  jealously 
guarded  than  its  predecessor  from  the  vagaries  of  fancy.  But 
truth  undisguised,  never  welcome  in  any  civilized  community 
above  ground,  is  exposed  at  this  time  to  especial  dangers  in 
Paris  ;  and  my  life  would  not  be  worth  an  hour's  purchase  if  I 
exhibited  her  in  puris  nattiralibus  to  the  eyes  of  a  people  wholly 
unfamiliarized  to  a  spectacle  so  indecorous.  That  care  for 
one's  personal  safety,  which  is  the  first  duty  of  thoughtful  man, 
compels  me  therefore  to  reconcile  the  appearance  of  la  veriie 
to  the  bienseances  of  the  polished  society  in  which  la  LibeiU 
admits  no  opinion  not  dressed  after  the  last  fashion. 

Attired  as  fiction.  Truth  may  be  peacefully  received  ;  and, 
despite  the  necessity  thus  imposed  by  prudence,  I  indulge  the 
modest  hope  that  I  do  not  in  these  pages  unfaithfully  represent 
certain  prominent  types  of  the  brilliant  population  which  has 
invented  so  many  varieties  of  Koom-Posh,*  and,  even  when  it 
appears  hopelessly  lost  in  the  slough  of  a  Glek-Nas,  re-emerges 
fresh  and  lively  as  if  from  an  invigorating  plunge  into  the 
Fountain  of  Youth.  O  Paris,  foyer  des  idees,  et  ceil  du  vi07ide  ! — 
animated  contrast  to  the  serene  tranquillity  of  the  Vril-ya, 
which,  nevertheless,  thy  noisiest  philosophers  ever  pretend  to 
make  the  goal  of  their  desires — of  all  communities  on  which 
shines  the  sun  and  descend  the  rains  of  heaven,  fertilizing 
alike  wisdom  and  folly,  virtue  and  vice,  in  every  city  men  have 
yet  built  on  this  earth,  mayest  thou,  O  Paris,  be  the  last  to 
brave  the  wands  of  the  Coming  Race  and  be  reduced  into  cin- 
ders for  the  sake  of  the  common  good ! 

TiSH. 

Paris,  August  28,  1872. 

*  Koom-Posh,  Glek-Nas.  For  the  derivation  of  these  terms  and  their 
metaphorical  signification,  I  must  refer  the  reader  to  the  "Coming  Race," 
chapter  xii.,  on  the  language  of  the  Vril-ya.  To  those  who  have  not  read 
or  have  forgotten  that  historical  composition,  it  may  be  convenient  to  state 
briefly  that  Koom-Posh  with  the  Vril-ya  is  the  name  for  the  government  of 
the  many,  or  the  ascendency  of  the  most  ignorant  or  hollow,  and  may  be 
loosely  rendered  Hollow-Bosh.  When  Koom-Posh  degenerates  from  pop- 
ular ignorance  into  the  popular  ferocity  which  precedes  its  decease,  tha 
name  for  that  state  of  things  is  Glek-Nas — viz.,  the  universal  strife-rot. 


BOOK    I. 


CHAPTER  I. 

It  was  a  bright  day  in  the  eariy  spring  of  1869. 

All  Paris  sedmed  to  have  turned  out  to  enjoy  itself.  The 
Tuileries,  the  Champs  Elysees,  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  swarmed 
with  idlers.  A  stranger  might  have  wondered  where  Toil  was 
at  work,  and  in  what  nook  Poverty  lurked  concealed.  A  mil- 
lionaire from  the  London  Exchange,  as  he  looked  round  on  the 
magnsins,  the  equipages,  the  dresses  of  the  women  ;  as  he  in- 
quired the  prices  in  the  shops  and  the  rent  of  apartments, — 
might  have  asked  himself,  in  envious  wonder.  How  on  earth  do 
those  gay  Parisians  live  ?  What  is  their  fortune  .''  Where  does 
it  come  from  ? 

As  the  day  declined,  many  of  the  scattered  loungers  crowd- 
ed into  the  Boulevards  ;  the  cafes  and  restaurants  began  to 
light  up. 

About  this  time  a  young  man,  who  might  be  some  five  or 
six  and  twenty,  was  walking  along  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens, 
heeding  little  the  throng  through  which  he  glided  his  solitary 
way.  There  was  that  in  his  aspect  and  bearing  which  caught 
attention.  He  looked  a  somebody ;  but,  though  unmistakably 
a  Frenchman,  not  a  Parisian.  His  dress  was  not  in  the  pre- 
vailing mode  :  to  a  practised  eye  it  betrayed  the  taste  and  the 
cut  of  a  provincial  tailor.  His  gait  was  not  that  of  the  Paris- 
ian— less  lounging,  more  stately  ;  and,  unlike  the  Parisian,  he 
seemed  indifferent  to  the  gaze  of  others. 

Nevertheless  there  was  about  him  that  air  of  dignity  or  dis- 
tinction which  those  who  are  reared  from  their  cradle  in  the 
pride  of  birth  acquire  so  unconsciously  that  it  seems  hereditary 
and  inborn.     It  must  also  be  confessed  that  the  young  man 


lO 


THE  PAKIS/AA'S. 


himself  was  endowed  with  a  considerable  share  of  that  nobility 
whicli  Nature  capriciously  distributes  among  her  favorites,  with 
little  respect  for  their  pedigree  and  blazon — the  nobility  of 
form  and  face.  He  was  tall  and  well  shaped,  with  graceful 
length  of  limb  and  fall  of  shoulders  ;  his  face  was  handsome, 
of  the  purest  type  of  French  masculine  beauty — the  nose  in- 
clined to  be  aquiline,  and  delicately  thin,  with  finely-cut  open 
nostrils  ;  the  complexion  clear,  the  eyes  large,  of  a  light  hazel, 
with  dark  lashes,  the  hair  of  a  chestnut  brown,  with  no  tint  of 
auburn,  the  beard  and  moustache  a  shade  darker,  clipped  short, 
not  disgviising  the  outline  of  lips,  which  were  now  compressed, 
as  if  smiles  had  of  late  been  unfamiliar  to  them  ;  yet  sucb  com- 
pression did  not  seem  in  harmony  with  the  physiognomical 
character  of  their  formation,  which  was  that  assigned  by  Lav- 
ater  to  temperaments  easily  moved  to  gayety  and  pleasure. 

Another  man,  about  his  own  age,  coming  quickly  out  of  one 
of  the  streets  of  the  Chaussee  d'Antin,  brushed  close  by  the 
stately  pedestrian  above  described,  caught  sight  of  his  counte- 
nance, stopped  short,  and  exclaimed,  "  Alain  !  "  The  person 
thus  abruptly  accosted  turned  his  eye  tranquilly  on  the  eager 
face,  of  which  all  the  lower  part  was  enveloped  in  black  beard ; 
and  slightly  lifting  his  hat,  with  a  gesture  of  the  head  that  im- 
plied, "  Sir,  you  are  mistaken ;  I  have  not  the  honor  to  know 
you,"  continued  his  slow  indifferent  way.  The  would-be  ac- 
quaintance was  not  so  easily  rebuffed.  "  Feste,""  said  he,  be- 
t\veen  his  teeth,  "  I  am  certainly  right.  He  is  not  much  al 
tered — of  course  7  am  ;  ten  years  of  Paris  would  improve  ai: 
orang-outang."  Quickening  his  step,  and  regaining  the  sid^ 
of  the  man  he  had  called  "  Alain,"  he  said,  with  a  well-bred 
mixture  of  boldness  and  courtesy  in  his  tone  and  counte 
ance — 

"  Ten  thousand  pardons  if  I  am  wrong.  But  surely  I 
accost  Alain  de  Kerouec,  son  of  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant." 

"  True,  sir ;  but " 

"  But  you  do  not  remember  me,  your  old  college  friend, 
Frederic  Lemercier  ?  " 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  cried  Alain,  cordially,  and  with  an  ani 
mation  which  changed  the  whole  character  of  his  countenance. 
"My  dear  Frederic,  my  dear  friend,  this  is  indeed  good  for- 
tune !     So  you,  too,  are  at  Paris  ?  " 

"  Of  course  ;  and  you  .-'  Just  come,  I  perceive,"  he  added, 
somewhat  satirically,  as,  linking  his  arm  in  his  new-found 
friend's,  he  glanced  at  the  cut  of  that  friend's  coat-collar. 

"  I  have  been  here  a  fortnight,"  replied  Alain. 


THE  PARISIANS.  II 

"  Hem  !  I  suppose  you  lodge  in  the  old  Hotel  de  Roche- 
briant.  I  passed  it  yesterday,  admiring  its  \z.%t  facade,  WwX^ 
thinking  you  were  its  inmate." 

"  Neither  am  I ;  the  hotel  does  not  belong  to  me — it  was 
sold  some  years  ago  by  my  father." 

"  Indeed  !  I  hope  your  father  got  a  good  price  for  it ; 
those  grand  hotels  have  trebled  their  value  within  the  last  five 
years.  And  how  is  your  father  ?  Still  the  same  polished 
graft d  seigneur  1  I  never  saw  him  but  once,  you  know  ;  and  I 
shall  never  forget  his  smile,  style  grand  monarque,  when  he 
patted  me  on  the  head  and  tipped  me  ten  napoleons." 

"  My  father  is  no  more,"  said  Alain,  gravely  ;  "  he  has  been 
dead  nearly  three  years." 

"  Ciel  /  forgive  me  ;  I  am  greatly  shocked.  Hena  !  so 
you  are  now  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  a  great  historical 
name,  worth  a  large  sum  in  the  market.  Few  such  names  left. 
Superb  place  your  old  chateau,  is  it  not  .-*  " 

"  A  superb  place,  No — a  venerable  ruin,  Yes  !  " 

"  Ah,  a  ruin !  so  much  the  better.  All  the  bankers  are 
mad  after  ruins — so  charming  an  amusement  to  restore  them. 
You  will  restore  yours,  without  doubt.  I  will  introduce  you  to 
such  an  architect !  has  the  moyen  age  at  his  fingers'  end.  Dear 
— but  a  genius." 

The  young  Marquis  smiled — for  since  he  had  found  a  col- 
lege friend,  his  face  showed  that  it  could  smile  ;  smiled,  but 
not  cheerfully,  and  answered — 

"  I  have  no  intention  to  restore  Rochebriant.  The  walls 
are  solid ;  they  have  weathered  the  storms  of  six  centuries  ; 
they  will  last  my  time  and  with  me  the  race  perishes." 

"  Bah  !  the  race  perish,  indeed  !  you  will  marr}'.  Parkz- 
tnoi  de  ca — you  could  not  come  to  a  better  man.  I  have  a  list 
of  all  the  heiresses  at  Paris,  bound  in  russia  leather.  You 
may  take  your  choice  out  of  twenty.  Ah,  if  I  were  but  a 
Rochebriant  !  It  is  an  infernal  thing  to  come  into  the  world  a 
Lemercier.  I  am  a  democrat,  of  course.  A  Lemercier  would 
be  in  a  false  position  if  he  were  not.  But  if  any  one  would 
leave  me  twenty  acres  of  land,  with  some  antique  right  to  the 
De  and  a  title,  faith,  would  not  I  be  an  aristocrat  and  stand  up 
for  my  order  ?  But  now  we  have  met,  pray  let  us  dine  together. 
Ah  !  no  doubt  you  are  engaged  every  day  for  a  month.  A 
Rochebriant  just  new  to  Paris  must  be  fete  by  all  the  Fau- 
bourg," 

"  No,"  answered  Alain,  simply — "  I  am  not  engaged  ;  my 
range  of  acquaintance  is  more  circumscribed  than  you  suppose,' 


12 


FAKISIANS. 


"  So  much  the  better  for  me.  I  am  luckily  disengaged  to- 
day, which  is  not  often  the  case,  for  1  am  in  some  request  in 
my  own  set,  though  it  is  not  that  of  the  Faubourg.  Where 
shall  we  dine  ? — at  the  Trois  Freres  ?  " 

"  Wherever  you  please.  I  know  no  restaurant  at  Paris  ex- 
cept a  very  ignoble  one,  close  by  my  lodging." 

"  A  propos,  where  do  you  lodge  .?  " 

"  Rue  de  I'Uniyersite,  Numero ." 

"  A  fine  street,  but  triste.  If  you  have  no  longer  your  family 
hotel,  you  have  no  excuse  to  linger  in  that  museum  of  mum- 
mies, the  Faubourg  St.  Germain ;  you  must  go  into  one  of  the 
new  quarters  by  the  Champs  Elysees.  Leave  it  to  me  ;  I'll  find 
you  a  charming  apartment.  I  know  one  to  be  had  a  bargain — 
a  bagatelle — five  hundred  naps  a  year.  Cost  you  about  two  or 
three  thousand  more  to  furnish  tolerably,  not  showily.  Leave 
all  to  me.  In  three  days  you  shall  be  settled.  A  propos  f 
horses!  You  must  have  English  ones.  How  many.' — three 
for  the  saddle,  two  for  your  coupe?  I'll  find  them  for  )'ou.  I  will 
write  to  London  to-morrow.     Reese  (Rice)  is  your  man." 

"  Spare  yourself  that  trouble,  my  dear  Frederic.  I  keep  no 
horses  and  no  coupe.  I  shall  not  change  my  apartment."  As 
he  said  this,  Rochebriant  drew  himself  up  somewhat  haughtily. 

"  Faith,"  thought  Lemercier,  "  is  it  possible  that  the  Mar- 
quis is  poor  ?  No.  I  have  always  heard  that  the  Rochebriants 
were  among  the  greatest  proprietors  in  Bretagne.  Most  likely, 
with  all  his  innocence  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  he  knows 
enough  of  it  to  be  aware  that  I,  Frederic  Lemercier,  am  not 
the  man  to  patronize  one  of  its  greatest  nobles.  Sacre  bleu  ! 
if  I  thought  that ;  if  he  meant  to  give  himself  airs  to  me,  his 
old  college  friend — I  would — I  would  call  him  out." 

Just  as  M.  Lemercier  had  come  to  that  bellicose  resolution, 
the  Marquis  said,  w^ith  a  smile  which,  though  frank,  was  not 
without  a  certain  grave  melancholy  in  its  expression,  "  My 
dear  Frederic,  pardon  me  if  I  seem  to  receive  your  friendly 
offers  ungraciously.  But  believe  that  I  have  reasons  you  will 
a]iprove  for  leading  at  Paris  a  life  which  you  certainly  will  not 
envy;  "  then,  evidently  desirous  to  change  the  subject,  he  said, 
in  a  livelier  tone,  "  But  what  a  marvellous  city  this  Paris  of 
ours  is!  Remember,  I  had  never  seen  it  before  :  it  burst  on 
me  like  a  city  in  the  Arabian  Nights  two  weeks  ago.  And  that 
which  strikes  me  most — I  say  it  with  regret  and  a  pang  of  con- 
.science — is  certainly  not  the  Paris  of  former  times,  but  that 
Palis  which  M.  Buonaparte — I  beg  pardon,  which  the  Emperor 
— has  called  up  around  him   and  identified  forever  with   his 


THE  PARISFANS.  13 

reign.  It  is  what  is  new  in  Paris  that  strikes  and  enthrall? 
me.  Here  I  see  the  life  of  France,  and  I  belong  to  hei 
tombs  ! " 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  you,"  said  Lemercier,  "  If  you 
think  that  because  your  father  and  grandfather  were  Legiti- 
mists, you  have  not  the  fair  field  of  living  ambition  open  to  you 
under  the  Empire,  you  never  were  more  mistaken.  Moyvi  age. 
and  even  tococo,  are  all  the  rage.  You  have  no  idea  how  \-m\\ 
able  your  name  would  be  either  at  the  Imperial  Court  or  in  a 
Commercial  Company.  But  with  your  fortune  you  aie  nde- 
pendent  of  all  but  fashion  and  the  Jockey  Club.  And  a propos 
of  that,  pardon  me — what  villain  made  your  coat  ? — let  me 
know  ;  I  will  denounce  him  to  the  police." 

Half  amused,  half  amazed,  Alain  Marquis  de  Rochebriant 
looked  at  Frederic  Lemercier  much  as  a  good-tempered  lion 
may  look  upon  a  lively  poodle  who  takes  a  liberty  with  his 
mane,  and,  after  a  pause,  he  replied,  curtly,  "  The  clothes  I 
wear  at  Paris  were  made  at  Bretagne ;  and  if  the  name  of 
Rochebriant  be  of  any  value  at  all  in  Paris,  which  I  doubt,  let 
me  trust  that  it  will  make  me  acknowledged  as  genfilhonimc% 
whatever  my  taste  in  a  coat,  or  whatever  the  doctrines  of  a  club 
composed — of  jockeys." 

"Ha,  ha!"  cried  Lemercier,  freeing  himself  from  the  arm 
of  his  friend,  and  laughing  the  more  irresistibly  as  he  encoun- 
tered the  grave  look  of  the  Marquis.  "  Pardon  me — I  can't 
help  it — the  Jockey  Club — composed  of  jockeys  ! — it  is  too 
much ! — the  best  joke  !  My  dear  Alain,  there  is  some  of  the 
best  blood  of  Europe  in  the  Jockey  Club ;  they  would  exclude 
a  plain  bourgeois  like  me.  But  its  all  the  same  ;  in  ont  respect 
you  are  quite  right.  Walk  in  a  blouse  if  you  please — you  are 
still  Rochebriant — you  would  only  be  called  eccentric.  Alas! 
I  am  obliged  to  send  to  London  for  my  pantaloons  ;  that  comes 
of  being  a  Lemercier.     But  here  we  are  in  the  Palais  Royal." 


CHAPTER   IL 


The  salons  of  the  Trois  Freres  were  crowded — our  friends 
found  a  table  with  some  difficulty.  Lemercier  proposed  a 
private  cabinet,  which,  for  some  reason  known  to  himself,  the 
Marquis  declined. 


,4  THE  PARISIANS. 

Lemercier,  spontaneously  and  unrequested,  ordered  the 
dinner  and  the  wines. 

While  waiting  for  their  oysters,  with  which,  wh^n  in  season, 
French  bo?i-vivants  usually  commence  their  dinner,  Lemercier 
looked  round  the  saloft  with  that  air  of  inimitable,  scrutinizing, 
superb  impertinence  which  distinguishes  the  Parisian  dandy. 
Some  of  the  ladies  returned  his  glance  coquettishly,  for  Lemer- 
cier was  beau  garcon  ;  others  turned  aside  indignantly  and  mut- 
tered something  to  the  gentlemen  dining  with  them.  The  said 
gentlemen,  when  old,  shook  their  heads,  and  continued  to  eat 
unmoved  ;  when  young,  turned  briskly  round,  and  looked  at 
first  fiercely  at  M.  Lemercier,  but  encountering  his  eye  through 
the  glass  which  he  had  screwed  into  its  socket — noticing  the 
hardihood  of  his  countenance  and  the  squareness  of  his  shoul- 
ders— even  they  turned  back  to  the  tables,  shook  their  heads, 
and  continued  to  eat  unmoved,  just  like  the  old  ones. 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Lemercier,  suddenly,  "  here  comes  a  man  you 
should  know  7non  cher.  He  will  tell  you  how  to  place  your 
money — a  rising  man — a  coming  man — a  future  minister.  Ah  ! 
bon  jour,  Duplessis,  bon  jour,^''  kissing  his  hand  to  a  gentleman 
who  had  just  entered,  and  was  looking  about  him  for  a  seat. 
He  was  evidently  well  and  favorably  known  at  the  Trois  Fieres. 
The  waiters  had  flocked  round  him,  and  were  pointing  to  a 
table  by  the  window,  which  a  saturnine  Englishman,  who  had 
dined  off  a  beef-steak  and  potatoes,  was  about  to  vacate. 

Mons.  Duplessis,  having  first  assured  himself,  like  a  prudent 
man,  that  his  table  was  secure,  having  ordered  his  oysters,  his 
chablis,  and  \\\'?,  potage  a  la  bisque,  now  paced  calmly  and  slowly 
across  the  salon,  and  halted  before  Lemercier. 

Here  let  me  pause  for  a  moment,  and  give  the  reader  a  rapid 
sketch  of  the  two  Parisians. 

Frederic  Lemercier  is  dressed,  somewhat  too  showily,  in  the 
extreme  of  the  prevalent  fashion.  He  wears  a  superb  pin  in 
his  cravat — a  pin  worth  two  thousand  francs  ;  he  wears  rings 
on  his  fingers,  breloques  to  his  watch-chain.  He  has  a  warm 
though  dark  complexion,  thick  black  eyebrows,  full  li]Ds,  a  nose 
somewhat  turned  up,  but  not  small,  very  fine  large  dark  eyes,  a 
bold,  oj^en,  somewhat  impertinent  expression  of  countenance — • 
withal  decidedly  handsome,  thanks  to  coloring,  youth,  and  viva- 
city of  "  regard." 

Lucien  Duplessis,  bending  over  the  table,  glancing  first  with 
curiosity  at  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  who  leans  his  cheek 
on  his  hand  and  seems  not  to  notice  him,  then  concentratinirhis 
attention  on  Frederic  Lemercier,  who  sits  square  with  his  hands 


THE  PARISIANS. 


'5 


clasped — Lucien  Duplessis  is  somewhere  between  forty  and 
fifty,  rather  below  the  middle  height,  slender  but  not  slight — 
what  in  Engish  phrase  is  called  "  wiry."  He  is  dressed  with 
extreme  simplicity  :  black  frock-coat  buttoned  up  ;  black  cravat 
worn  higher  than  men  who  follow  the  fashions  wear  their  neck- 
cloths  nowadays  ;  a  hawk's  eye  and  a  hawk's  beak  ;  hair  of  a 
dull  brown,  very  short,  and  wholly  without  curl ,  his  cheeks 
thin  and  smoothly  shaven,  but  he  wears  a  moustache  and  impe- 
rial, plagiarized  from  those  of  his  sovereign,  and,  like  all  plag- 
iarisms, carrying  the  borrowed  beauty  to  extremes,  so  that  the 
points  of  moustache  and  imperial,  stiffened  and  sharpened  by 
cosmetics  which  must  have  been  composed  of  iron,  looked  like 
three  long  stings  guarding  lip  and  jaw  from  invasion ;  a  pale 
olive-brown  complexion  ;  eyes  small,  deep-sunk,  calm,  piercing  ; 
his  expression  of  face  at  first  glance  not  striking,  except  for 
quiet  immovability.  Obser\'ed  more  heedfully,  the  expression 
was  keenly  intellectual — determined  about  the  lips,  calculating 
about  the  brows  :  altogether  the  face  of  no  ordinary  man,  and 
one  not,  perhaps,  without  fine  and  high  qualities,  concealed 
from  the  general  gaze  by  habitual  reserv^e,  but  justifying  the 
confidence  of  those  whom  he  admitted  into  his  intimacy. 

"  Ah,  mon  cher^^  said  Lemercier,  "  you  promised  to  call  on 
me  yesterday  at  two  o'clock.  I  waited  for  you  half  an  hour  ; 
you  never  came." 

"  No  ;  I  went  first  to  the  Bourse.  The  shares  in  that  Com- 
pany we  spoke  of  have  fallen  ;  tncy  will  fall  much  lower — foolish 
to  buy  in  yet ;  so  the  object  of  my  calling  on  you  was  over.  I 
took  it  for  granted  you  would  not  wait  if  I  failed  my  appoint- 
ment.    Do  you  go  to  the  opera  to-night  ?  " 

"  I  think  not — nothing  worth  going  for ;  besides,  I  have 
found  an  old  friend,  to  whom  I  consecrate  this  evening.  Let 
me  introduce  you  to  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant.  Alain,  M. 
Duplessis." 

The  two  gentlemen  bowed. 

"  I  had  the  honor  to  be  known  to  Monsieur  your  father," 
said  Duplessis. 

"Indeed,"  returned  Rochebriant.  "He  had  not  visited 
Paris  for  many  years  before  he  died." 

"  It  was  in  Londan  I  met  him,  at  the  house  of  the  Russian 
Princess  C " 

The  marquis  colored  high,  inclined  his  head  gravely,  and 
made  no  reply.  Here  the  waiter  brought  the  oysters  and  the 
chablis,  and  Duplessis  retired  to  his  own  table. 

•'That  is  the  most  extraordinary  man,'"  said  Frederic,  as  he 


,6  THE  PARISIANS. 

squeezed  the  lemon   over  liis  oysters,   "  and  very  much  to  be 
admired." 

"  How  so  ?  I  see  nothhig  at  least  to  admire  in  his  face," 
said  the  Marquis,  with  thebluntness  of  a  provincial. 

"  His  face.  Ah  !  you  are  a  Legitimist — party  prejudice. 
He  dresses  his  face  after  the  Emperor ;  in  itself  a  very  clever 
face,  surelv." 

"  Perhaps,  but  not  an  amiable  one.  He  looks  like  a  bird  of 
prey." 

\  "  All  clever  men  are  birds  of  prey.  The  eagles  are  the 
heroes,  and  the  owls  the  sages.  Duplessis  is  not  an  eagle  nor 
an  owl.  I  should  rather  call  him  a  falcon,  except  that  I  would 
not  attempt  to  hoodwink  him." 

"  Call  him  what  you  will,"  said  the  Marquis,  indifferently  ; 
"  M.  Duplessis  can  be  nothing  to  me." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  answered  Frederic,  somewhat 
nettled  by  the  phlegm  with  which  the  provincial  regarded  the 
pretensions  of  the  Parisian.  "  Duplessis,  I  repeat  it  is  an  ex- 
traordinary man.  Though  untitled,  he  descends  from  your  old 
aristocracy  ;  in  fact,  I  believe,  as  his  name  shows,  from  the 
same  stem  as  the  Richelieus.  His  father  was  a  great  scholar, 
and  I  believe  he  has  read  much  himself.  Might  have  taken  to 
literature  or  to  the  bar,  but  his  parents  died  fearfully  poor  ;  and 
some  distant  relations  in  commerce  took  charge  of  him,  and 
devoted  his  talents  to  the  Bourse.  Seven  years  ago  he  lived  in 
a  single  chamber,  an  quatricme,  near  the  Luxembourg.  He  has 
now  a  hotel,  not  large,  but  charming,  in  the  Champs  Elysees, 
worth  at  least  600,000  francs.  Nor  has  he  made  his  own  for- 
tune alone,  but  that  of  many  others ;  some  of  birth  as  high  as 
your  own.  He  has  the  genius  of  riches,  and  knocks  off  a  mil- 
lion as  a  poet  does  an  ode,  by  the  force  of  inspiration.  He  is 
hand-in-glove  with  the  Ministers,  and  has  been  invited  to  Com- 
piegne  by  the  Emperor.     You  will  fmd  him  very  useful." 

Alain  made  a  slight  movement  of  incredulous  dissent,  and 
changed  the  conversation  to  reminiscences  of  old  schoolboy 
days. 

The  dinner  at  length  came  to  a  close.  Frederic  rang  for  the 
bill — glanced  over  it.  "  Fift)'-nine  francs,"  said  he,  carelessly 
flinging  down  his  napoleon  and  a  half.  The  Marquis  silently 
drew  foith  his  purse  and  extracted  the  same  sum. 

W^hen  they  were  out  of  the  restaurant,  Frederic  proposed 
adjourning  to  his  own  rooms.  "  I  can  promise  you  an  excellent 
cigar,  one  of  a  box  given  to  me  by  an  invaluable  young  Span- 
iard attached  to  the  Embassy  here.     Such  cigars  are  not  to  be 


THE  PARISIANS.  17 

had  at  Paris  for  money,  not  even  for  love,  seeing  that  women, 
however  devoted  and  generous,  never  offer  you  anything  better 
than  a  cigarette.  Such  cigars  are  only  to  be  had  for  friendship. 
Friendship  is  a  jewel." 

"  I  never  smoke,"  answered  the  Marquis,  "  but  I  shall  be 
charmed  to  come  to  your  rooms  ;  only  don't  let  me  encroach 
upon  your  good  nature.  Doubtless  you  have  engagements  for 
the  evening." 

"  None  till  eleven  o'clock,  when  I  have  promised  to  go  to  a 
soiree,  to  which  I  do  not  offer  to  take  you  ;  for  it  is  one  of  those 
Bohemian  entertainments  at  which  it  would  do  you  harm  in  the 
Fauburgio  assist — at  least  until  you  have  made  good  your  posi- 
tion. Let  me  see,  is  not  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon  a  relation 
of  yours  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  my  poor  mother's  first-cousin." 

"  I  congratulate  you.  Ires-grande  dame.  She  will  launch 
you  171  picro  coelo,  as  Juno  might  have  launched  one  of  her  young 
peacocks." 

"There  has  been  no  acquaintance  between  our  houses,"  re- 
turned the  Marquis,  dryly,  "  since  the  mesalliance  of  her  second 
nuptials." 

'^Mesalliance!  second  nuptials!  Her  second  husband 
was  the  Duke  de  Tarascon." 

"  A  duke  of  the  First  Empire — the  grandson  of  a  butcher." 

^'-  Diable !  you  are  a  severe  genealogist,  Monsieur  le  Mar- 
quis. How  can  you  consent  to  walk  arm  in  arm  with  me,  whose 
great-grandfather  supplied  bread  to  the  same  army  to  which  the 
Duke  de  Tarascon's  grandfather  furnished  the  meat  !  " 

"  My  dear  Frederic,  we  two  have  an  equal  pedigree,  for  our 
friendship  dates  from  the  same  hour.  I  do  not  blame  the 
Duchesse  de  Tarascon  for  marrying  the  grandson  of  a  butcher, 
but  for  marrying  the  son  of  a  man  made  duke  by  an  usurper. 
She  abandoned  the  faith  of  her  house  and  the  cause  of  her 
sovereign.  Therefore  her  marriage  is  a  blot  on  our  scutch- 
eon." 

Frederic  raised  his  eyebrows,  but  had  the  tact  to  pursue  the 
subject  no  further.  He  who  interferes  in  the  quarrels  of  rela- 
tions must  pass  through  life  without  a  friend. 

The  young  men  now  arrived  at  Lemercier's  apartment,  an 
entresol  looking  on  the  Boulevarde  des  Italiens,  consisting  of 
more  room  than  a  bachelor  generally  requires  ;  and,  though 
low-pitched,  of  good  dimensions,  decorated  and  furnished  with 
a   luxury  which  really   astonished  the   provincial,  though,  with 


l8  ThK  FARISIANS. 

the  high-bred  pride  of  an  Oriental,  he  suppiessed  every  sign  of 
surprise. 

Florentine  cabinets  freshly  retouched  by  the  exquisite  skill 
of  Mombro ;  costly  specimens  of  old  Sevres  and  Limoges ; 
pictures  and  bronzes  and  marble  statuettes — all  well  chosen 
and  of  great  price,  reflected  from  mirrors  in  Venetian  frames 
— made  a  coup-a'oeil  very  favorable  to  that  respect  which  the 
human  mind  pays  to  the  evidences  of  money.  Nor  was  com- 
fort less  studied  than  splendor.  Thick  carpets  covered  the 
floors,  doubled  and  quilted /(?r//^;rj-  excluded  all  draughts  from 
chinks  in  the  doors.  Having  allowed  his  friend  a  few  minutes 
to  contemplate  and  admire  the  salle  a  mafiger  and  salon  which 
constituted  his  more  state  apartments,  Frederic  then  conducted 
him  into  a  small  cabinet,  fitted  up  with  scarlet  cloth  and  gold 
fringes,  whereon  were  artistically  arranged  trophies  of  East- 
ern weapons  and  Turkish  pipes  with  amber  mouthpieces. 

There  placing  the  Marquis  at  ease  on  a  divan,  and  flinging 
himself  on  another,  the  Parisian  exquisite  ordered  a  valet,  well 
dressed  as  himself,  to  bring  coffee  and  liqueurs  ;  and  after  vain- 
ly pressing  one  of  his  matchless  cigars  on  his  friend,  indulged 
in  his  own  Regalia. 

"  They  are  ten  years  old,"  said  Frederic,  Avith  a  tone  of 
compassion  at  Alain's  self-inflicted  loss — "  ten  years  old.  Born, 
therefore,  about  the  year  in  which  we  two  parted." 

"  When  you  were  so  hastily  summoned  from  college,"  said 
the  Marquis,  "  by  the  news  of  your  father's  illness.  We  ex- 
pected you  back  in  vain.  Have  you  been  at  Paris  ever 
since  ?  " 

"  P>er  since  ;  my  poor  father  died  of  that  illness.     His  for- 
tune   proved   much   larger    than    was    suspected ;    my   share 
amounted  to  an  income,  from  investments   in  stocks,  houses 
etc.,  to  upwards  of  60,000  francs  a  year ;  and  as  I  wanted  six 
years  of  my  majority,  of  course  the  capital  on  attaining  my  ma 
jority,  would  be  increased  by  accumulation.     My  mother  de 
sired  to  keep  me  near  her ;  my  uncle,  who  was  joint  guardian 
with  her,  looked  with  disdain  on  our  poor  little  provincial  col 
tage  ;  so  promising  an  heir  should  acquire  his  finishing  educa- 
tion under  masters  at  Paris.     Long  before  I  was  of  age,  I  was 
initiated  into  politer  mysteries  of  our  capital  thar  those  cele- 
brated by  Eugene  Sue.     When   I  took  possession   of  niy  fc 
tune,  five  years  ago,  I  was  considered  a  Croesus;  and  ieally  tor 
that  patriarchal  time  I  was  wealthy.     Now,  alas!  rny  rccumu- 
lations  have  vanished  in  my  outfit  ;  and  60,000  irrincs  a  year  is 
the  least  a  Parisian  can  live  upon.     It  is  not  only  that,  all  prices 


THE  PARISIAA^S.  ig 

have  fabulously  increased,  but  that  the  dearer  things  become, 
the  better  people  live.  When  I  first  came  out  the  world  spec- 
ulated upon  me,  now,  in  order  to  keep  my  standing,  I  am  forced 
to  speculate  on  the  world.  Hitherto  I  have  not  lost  ;  Duplessis 
,et  me  into  a  few  good  things  this  year,  worth  100,000  francs  or 
so.  Croesus  consulted  the  Delphic  Oracle.  Duplessis  was  not 
alive  in  the  tinie  of  Croesus,  or  Croesus  would  have  consulted 
Duplessis." 

Here  there  was  a  ring  at  the  outer  door  of  the  apartment, 
and  in  another  minute  the  valet  ushered  in  a  gentleman  some- 
where about  the  age  of  thirty,  of  prepossessing  countenance, 
and  with  the  indefinable  air  of  good-breeding  and  usage  du 
tnonde.  Frederic  started  up  to  greet  cordially  the  new-comer, 
and  introduced  him  to  the  Marquis  under  the  name  of  '•  Sare 
Grarm-Varn." 

"  Decidedly,"  said  the  visitor,  as  he  took  off  his  paletot  and 
seated  himself  beside  the  Marquis — "  decidedly,  my  dear  Le- 
mercier,"  said  he,  in  very  correct  French,  and  with  the  true 
Parisian  accent  and  intonation,  "  you  Frenchmen  merit  that 
praise  for  polished  ignorance  of  the  language  of  barbarians 
which  a  distinguished  historian  bestows  on  the  ancient  Romans. 
Permit  me,  Marquis,  to  submit  to  you  the  consideration  whether 
Grarra  Varn  is  a  fair  rendering  of  my  name  as  truthfully  printed 
on  this  card." 

The  inscription  on  the  card,  thus  drawn  from  its  case  and 
placed  in  Alain's  hand,  was — 

Mr.  Graham  Vane, 

No. — Rue  d'Anjou. 
I 

The  Marquis  gazed  at  it  as  he  might  on  a  hieroglyphic,  and 
passed  it  on  to  Lemercier  in  discreet  silence. 

That  gentleman  made  another  attempt  at  the  barbarian  ap- 
pellation. 

"  '  Grar — ham  Varne.  C'est  ca  !  I  triumph  !  all  difficulties 
yield  to  French  energy." 

Here  the  coffee  and  liqueurs  were  served  ;  and  after  a  short 
pause  the  Englishman,  who  had  very  quietly  been  observing 
the  silent  Marquis,  turned  to  him  and  said,  "  Monsieur  la  Mar- 
quis, I  presume  it  was  your  father  whom  I  remember  as  an 
acquaintance  of  my  own  father  at  Ems.  It  is  many  years  ago  ; 
I  was  but  a  child.  The  Count  de  Chambord  was  then  at  that 
enervating  little  spa  for  the  benefit  of  the  Countess's  health. 


fc> 


20  THE  PARISIANS. 

If  our  friend  Lemercier  does  not  mangle  your  name  as  he  does 
mine,  I  understand  him  to  say  that  you  are  the  Marquis  de 
Kochebriant." 

"  That  is  my  name  ;  it  pleases  me  to  hear  that  my  father 
was  among  those  who  flocked  to  Ems  to  do  homage  to  the 
royal  personage  who  deigns  to  assume  the  title  of  Count  de 
Chambord," 

'  My  own  ancestors  clung  to  the  descendants  of  James  II. 
till  their  claims  were  buried  in  the  grave  of  the  last  Stuart; 
and  I  honor  the  gallant  men  who,  like  your  father,  revere  in  an 
exile  the  heir  to  their  ancient  kings." 

The  Englishman  said  this  with  grace  and  feeling ;  the  Mar- 
quis's heart  warmed  to  him  at  once. 

"  The  first  loyal  gentilhomme  I  have  met  at  Paris,"  thought 
the  Legitimist  :  "  and,  oh  shame  !  not  a  Frenchman  !  " 

Graham  Vane,  now  stretching  himself  and  accepting  the 
cigar  which  Lemercier  offered  him,  said  to  that  gentleman, 
"  You  who  know  your  Paris  by  heart — everybody  and  every- 
thing therein  worth  the  knowing,  with  many  bodies  and  many 
things  that  are  not  worth  it — can  you  inform  me  who  and  what 
is  a  certain  lady  who  every  fine  day  may  be  seen  walking  in  a 
quiet  spot  at  the  outskirts  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  not  far 
from  the  Baron  de  Rothschild's  villa  ?  The  said  lady  arrives 
at  this  selected  spot  in  a  dark-blue  coupe  without  armorial  bear- 
ings, punctually  at  the  hour  of  three.  She  wears  always  the 
same  dress,  a  kind  of  gray  pearl-colored  silk,  with  a  cache^nire 
shawl.  In  age  she  may  be  somewhat  about  twenty — a  year  or 
so  more  or  less — and  has  a  face  as  haunting  as  a  Medusa's  ; 
not,  however,  a  face  to  turn  a  man  into  a '  stone,  but  rather  of 
the  two,  turn  a  stone  into  a  man.  A  clear  paleness,  with  a 
bloom  like  an  alabaster  lamp  with  the  light  flashing  through. 
I  borrow  that  illustration  from  Sare  Scott,  who  applied  it  to 
Milor  Bee-ron." 

"  I  have  not  seen  the  lady  you  describe,"  answered  Lemer- 
cier, feeling  humiliated  by  the  avowal;  "in  fact,  I  have  not 
been  in  that  sequestered  part  of  the  Bois  for  months  ;  but  I 
will  go  to-morrow  :  three  o'clock,  you  say.  Leave  it  to  me  ;  to- 
morrow evening,  if  she  is  a  Parisienne,  you  shall  know  all  about 
her.  But,  mon  cher,  you  are  not  of  a  jealous  temperament,  to 
confide  your  discovery  to  another. 

"  Yes,  I  am  of  a  very  jealons  temperament,"  replied  the 
Englishman;  "  but  jealousy  comes  after  love,  and  not  before 
it.  i  am  not  in  love  ;  I  am  only  haunted.  To-morrow  even« 
ing,  then,  shall  wc  dine  at  Philippe's,  seven  o'clock?" 


THE  rARISIANS.  2i 

"With  all  my  heart,"  said  Lemercier ;  "and  you,  loo, 
Alain." 

"Thank  you,  no,"  said  the  Marquis,  briefly;  and  he  rose, 
drew  on  his  gloves,  and  took  up  his  hat. 

At  these  signals  of  departure,  the  Englishman,  who  did  not 
want  tact  or  delicacy,  thought  that  he  had  made  himself  dt 
trop  in  the  tete-a-tete  of  two  friends  of  the  same  age  and  nation  ; 
and,  catching  up  his  paletot,  said,  hastily,  "  No  Marquis,  do 
not  go  yet,  and  leave  our  host  in  solitude,  for  I  have  an  en- 
gagement which  presses,  and  only  looked  into  Lemercier's  for 
a  moment,  seeing  the  light  at  his  windows.  Permit  me  to  hope 
that  our  acquaintance  will  not  drop,  and  inform  me  where  [ 
may  have  the  honor  to  call  on  you." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  Marquis  ;  "  I  claim  the  right  of  a  native 
to  pay  my  respects  first  to  the  foreigner  who  visits  our  capital, 
and,"  he  added  in  a  lower  tone,  "  who  speaks  so  nobly  of  those 
who  revere  its  exiles." 

The  Englishman  saluted,  and  walked  slowly  towards  the 
door,  but  on  reaching  the  threshold  turned  back  and  made  a 
sign  to  Lemercier,  unperceived  by  Alain. 

Frederic  understood  the  sign,  and  followed  Graham  Vane 
into  the  adjoining  room,  closing  the  door  as  he  passed. 

"  My  dear  Lemercier,  of  course  I  should  not  have  intruded 
on  you  at  this  hour  on  a  mere  visit  of  ceremony.  I  called  to 
say  that  the  Mademoiselle  Duval  \yhose  address  you  sent  me 
is  not  the  right  one — not  the  lady  whom— knowing  your  wide 
range  of  acquaintance,  I  asked  you  to  aid  me  in  finding  out," 

"  Not  the  right  Duval  ?  Diablel  She  answered  your  de- 
scription exactly." 

"  Not  at  all." 

"You  said  she  was  very  pretty  and  young — under  twenty." 

"You  forgot  that  I  said  she  deserved  that  description 
twenty-one  years  ago." 

"  Ah,  so  you  did ;  but  some  ladies  are  always  young. 
'  Ago.,^  says  a  wit  in  the  Figaro,  '  is  a  river  which  the  women 
compel  to  reascend  to  its  source  when  it  has  flowed  onward 
more  than  twenty  years.'  Never  mind — soyez  tranquille — 1 
will  find  your  Duval  yet,  if  she  is  to  be  found.  But  why  could 
not  the  friend  who  commissioned  you  to  inquire  choose  a  name 
less  common  .''  Duval  !  every  street  in  Paris  has  a  shop-door 
over  which  is  inscribed  the  name  of  Duval," 

"  Quite  true  ;  there  is  the  difficulty  ;  however,  my  dear  Le- 
mercier, pr?y  continue  to  look  out  for  a  Louise  Duval  who  was 


,j  THE  PARTSTANS. 

young  and  pretty  twenty-one  years  ago — this  search  ought  to 
interest  me  more  than  that  which  I  intrusted  to  you  to-night 
respecting  the  pearly-robed  lady  ;  for  in  the  last  I  but  gratify 
my  own  whim  ;  in  the  first  I  discharge  a  promise  to  a  friend. 
V'ou,  so  perfect  a  Frenchman,  know  the  difference  ;  honor  is 
•engaged  to  the  first.  Be  sure  you  let  me  know  if  you  find  any 
^ther  Madame  or  Mademoiselle  Duval  ;  and  of  course  you  re- 
nember  your  promise  not  to  mention  to  any  one  the  commission 
of  inquiry  you  so  kindly  undertake.  I  congratulate  you  on 
your  friendship  for  M.  de  Rochebriant.  What  a  noble  coun- 
tenance and  manner!  " 

Lemercier  returned  to  the  Marquis.  "  Such  a  pity  you  don't 
dine  with  us  to-morrow.  I  fear  you  made  but  a  poor  dinner  to- 
day. But  it  is  always  better  to  arrange  the  menu  beforehand. 
I  will  send  to  Philippe's  to-morrow.     Do  not  be  afraid." 

The  Marquis  paused  a  moment,  and  on  his  young  face  a 
proud  struggle  was  visible.  At  last  he  said,  bluntly  and  man- 
fully— 

"  Mv  dear  Frederic,  your  world  and  mine  are  not  and  can- 
.lot  be  the  same.  Why  should  I  be  ashamed  to  own  to  my  old 
schoolfellow  that  I  am  poor — very  poor;  that  the  dinner  I  have 
shared  with  you  to-day  is  to  me  a  criminal  extra\'agance  ?  I 
lodge  in  a  single  chamber  on  the  fourth  story  ;  I  dine  off  a 
single  plat  at  a  small  restaurateur's  ;  the  utmost  income  I  can 
allow  to  myself  does  not  exceed  5000  francs  a  year  :  my  for- 
tunes I  cannot  hope  much  to  improve.  In  his  own  country 
Alain  de  Rochebriant  has  no  career." 

Lemercier  was  so  astonished  by  this  confession  that  he  re- 
mained for  some  moments  silent,  eyes  and  mouth  both  wide 
open  :  at  length  he  sprang  up,  embraced  his  friend,  wellnigh 
sobbing,  and  exclaimed,"  Tant  niieux  pour  moi  I  You  must 
take  your  lodging  with  me.  I  have  a  charming  bedroom  to 
spare.  Don't  say  no.  It  will  raise  my  own  postiton  to  say  I 
and  Rochebriant  keep  house  together.  It  must  be  so.  Come 
here  to-morrow.  As  for  not  having  a  career — bah  !  I  and 
Duplessis  will  settle  that.  You  shall  be  a  7nillionave  in  two 
years.  Meanwhile  we  will  join  capitals  :  I  my  paltry  notes, 
you  your  grand  name.     Settled  !  " 

"  My  dear,  dear  Frederic,"  said  the  young  noble,  deeply 
affected,"  on  reflection  3'ou  will  see  what  you  propose  is  im- 
possible. Poor  I  may  be  without  dishonor  ;  live  at  another 
man's  cost  I  caimot  do  without  baseness.  It  does  not  require 
to  be  gentil/uW'me  to  feel  that :  it  is  enough  to  be  a  Frenchman. 
Come  and  iCc  me  when  you  can  spare  the  time.     Tlicre  is  my 


THE  PARIS  Li, VS.  23 

address.  You  are  the  only  man  in  Paris  to  whom  I  shall  be  at 
home.  Au  revoir."  And,  breaking  away  from  Lemercier's 
clasp,  the  Marquis  hurried  off. 


CHAPTER  III. 


Alain  reached  the  house  in  which  he  lodged.  Externally 
a  fine  house,  it  had  been  the  hotel  of  a  great  family  in  the  old 
regime.  On  the  first  floor  were  still  superb  apartments,  with  ceil 
ings  painted  by  Le  Brun,  with  walls  on  which  the  thick  silks  still 
seemed  fresh.  These  rooms  were  occupied  by  z.  rich,  agent  de 
change  ;  but,  like  all  such  ancient  palaces,  the  upper  stories 
were  wretchedly  defective  even  in  the  comforts  which  poor  men 
demand  nowadays  :  a  back  staircase,  narrow,  dirty,  nevei 
lighted,  dark  as  Erebus,  led  to  the  room  occupied  by  the  Mar- 
quis, which  might  be  naturally  occupied  by  a  needy  student  or 
a  virtuous  grisette.  But  there  was  to  him  a  charm  in  that  old 
hotel,  and  the  richest  locataire  therein  was  not  treated  with  a 
respect  so  ceremonious  as  that  which  attended  the  lodger  on 
the  fourth  story.  The  porter  and  his  wife  were  Bretons  ;  they 
liame  from  the  village  of  Rochebriant ;  they  had  known  Alain's 
parents  in  their  young  days  ;  it  was  their  kinsman  who  had 
recommended  him  to  the  hotel  which  they  served  :  so,  when 
he  paused  at  the  lodge  for  his  key,  which  he  had  left  there,  the 
porter's  wife  was  in  waiting  for  his  return,  and  insisted  on  light- 
ing him  upstairs  and  seeing  to  his  fire,  for  after  a  warm  day 
the  night  had  turned  to  that  sharp  biting  cold  which  is  more  try- 
ing in  Paris  than  even  in  London. 

The  old  woman,  running  up  the  stairs  before  him,  opened 
the  door  of  his  loom,  and  busied  herself  at  the  fire.  "  Gently, 
my  good  Martha,"  said  he  ;  "  that  log  suffices.  I  have  been 
extravagant  to-day,  and  must  pinch  for  it." 

"  M.  le  Marquis  jests,"  said  the  old  woman,  laughing. 

"  No,  Martha  ;  I  am  serious.  I  have  sinned,  but  I  shall 
reform.  Entre  nous.,  my  dear  friend,  Paris  is  very  dear  when 
one  sets  one's  foot  out  of  doors  ;  I  must  soon  go  back  to 
Rochebriant." 

"  When  M.  le  Marquis  goes  back  to  Rochebriant  he  must 
take  with  him  a  Madame  la  Marquise — some  pretty  angel  .with 
a  suitable  dot.'" 


24  yffR  PARIS  TANS. 

"  A  dot  suitable  to  the  ruins  of  Rochebriant  -would  not  suf- 
fice to  repair  them,  Martha  :  give  me  my  dressing-gown,  and 
good-night." 

"  Bon  repos,  M.  le  Margin's  !  beaux  rei'es,  ei  bd  avcim .''' 

"  Bd  avcnir  /"  murmured  the  young  man,  bitterly,  leaning 
his  cheek  on  his  hand  ;  "  what  fortune  fairer  than  the  present 
can  be  mine  ?  yet  inaction  in  youth  is  more  keenly  felt  than 
is  age.  How  lightly  I  should  endure  poverty  if  it  brought 
poverty's  ennobling  companion,  labor — denied  to  me  !  Well, 
well,  I  must  go  back  to  the  old  rock  :  on  this  ocean  there  is  no 
sail,  not  even  an  oar,  for  me." 

Alain  de  Rochebriant  had  not  been  reared  to  the  expecta- 
tion of  poverty.  The  only  son  of  a  father  whose  estates  were 
large  beyond  those  of  most  nobles  in  nijodern  France,  his  des- 
tined heritaije  seemed  not  unsuitable  to  his  illustrious  birth. 
Educated  at  a  provincial  academy,  he  had  been  removed  at 
the  age  of  sixteen  to  Rochebriant,  and  lived  there  simply  and 
lonelilv  enough,  but  still  in  a  sort  of  feudal  state,  with  an  aunt, 
an  elder  and  unmarried  sister  to  his  father. 

His  father  he  never  saw  but  twice  after  leaving  college. 
That  brillant  sdgneur  visited  France  but  rarely,  for  very  brief 
intervals,  residing  wholly  abroad.  To  him  went  all  the  reve- 
nues of  Rochebriant,  save  what  sufficed  for  the  nienageoi  his  son 
and  his  sister.  It  was  the  cherished  belief  of  these  two  loyal 
natures  that  the  Marquis  secretly  devoted  his  fortune  to  the 
cause  of  the  Bourbons — how,  they  knew  not,  though  they  often 
amused  themselves  by  conjecturing  ;  and  the  young  man,  as  he 
grew  up,  nursed  the  hope  that  he  should  soon  hear  that  the 
descendant  of  Henri  Quatre  had.  crossed  the  frontier  on  a  white 
charger  and  hoisted  the  old  gonfalon  with  'MsJIeur  de  lis.  Then 
indeed,  his  own  career  would  be  opened,  and  the  sword  of  the 
Kerouecs  drawn  from  its  sheath.  Day  after  day  he  expected 
to  hear  of  revolts,  of  which  his  noble  father  was  doubtless  the 
soul.  But  the  Marquis,  though  a  sincere  Legitimist,  was  by  no 
means  an  enthusiastic  fanatic.  He  was  simply  aver}'  proud, 
a  very  polished,  a  very  luxurious,  and,  though  not  without  the 
kindliness  and  generosity  which  were  common  attributes  of  the 
old  French  tioblesse,  a  very  selfish  grand  seigtieur. 

Losing  his  wife  (who  died  the  first  year  of  marriage  in  giving 
birth  to  Alain)  while  he  was  yet  very  young,  he  had  lived  a 
frank  libertine  life  until  he  fell  submissive  under  the  despotic  yoke 
of  a  Russian  Princess,  who,  for  some  mysterious  reason,  never 
visited  her  own  country  and  obstinately  refused  to  reside  in 
France.     She  was  fond  of  travel,  and  moved  yearly  from  Lon- 


THE  PARISIANS.  25 

don  to  N'aples,  Naples  to  Vienna,  Berlin,  Madrid,  Seville,  Carls- 
bad, Baden-Baden — anywhere  for  caprice  or  change,  except 
Paris.  This  fair  wanderer  succeeded  in  chaining  to  herself  the 
heart  and  the  steps  of  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant. 

She  was  very  rich ;  she  lived  semi-royally.  Hers  was  just 
the  house  in  which  it  suited  the  Marquis  to  be  the  enfaiit  gate. 
1  suspect  that,  cat-like,  his  attachment  was  rather  to  the  house 
ihan  to  the  person  of  his  mistress.  Not  that  he  was  domiciled 
with  the  Princess ;  that  would  have  been  somewhat  too  much 
against  the  proprieties,  greatly  too  much  against  the  Marquis's 
notions  of  his  own  dignity.  He  had  his  own  carriage,  his  own 
apartments,  his  own  suite,  as  became  so  grand  a  seigneur  and 
the  lover  of  so  grand  a  dame.  His  estates,  mortgaged  before 
he  came  to  them,  yielded  no  income  sufficient  for  his  wants  ;  he 
mortgaged  deeper  and  deeper,  year  after  year,  till  he  could 
mortgage  them  no  more.  He  sold  his  hotel  at  Paris — he  ac 
cepted  without  scruple  his  sister's  fortune — he  borrowed  with 
equal  sangfroid  the  two  hundred  thousand  francs  which  his  son 
on  coming  of  age  inherited  from  his  mother.  Alain  yielded 
that  fortune  to  him  without  a  murmur — nay,  with  pride  ;  he 
thought  it  destined  to  go  towards  raising  a  regiment  for  the 
fleur  de  lis. 

To  do  the  Marquis  justice,  he  was  fully  persuaded  that  he 
should  shortly  restore  to  his  sister  and  son  what  he  so  reck- 
lessly took  from  them.  He  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  his 
Princess  so  soon  as  her  own  husband  died.  She  had  been  sep- 
arated from  the  Prince  for  many  years,  and  every  year  it  was 
said  he  could  not  last  a  year  longer.  But  he  completed  the 
measure  of  his  conjugal  iniquities  by  continuing  to  live  ;  and 
one  day,  by  mistake,  Death  robbed  the  lady  of  the  Marquis 
instead  of  the  Prince. 

This  was  an  accident  which  the  Marquis  had  never  counted 
upon.  He  was  still  young  enough  to  consider  himself  young  ; 
in  fact,  one  principal  reason  for  keeping  Alain  secluded  in 
Ikittany  was  his  reluctance  to  introduce  into  the  world  a  son 
"  as  old  as  myself,"  he  would  say  pathetically.  The  news  of 
his  death,  which  happened  at  Baden  after  a  short  attack  of 
bronchitis  caught  in  a  supper  al  fresco  at  the  old  castle,  was 
duly  transmitted  to  Rochebriant  by  the  Princess  ;  and  the  shock 
to  Alain  and  his  aunt  was  the  greater  because  they  had  seen 
so  little  of  the  departed  that  they  regarded  him  as  a  heroic 
myth,  an  impersonation  of  ancient  cJhivalry,  condemning  him- 
self to  voluntary  exile  rather  than  do  homage  to  usurpers.  But 
from  their  grief  they  were  soon  roused  by  the  terrible  doubt 


26  THE  PARISIANS. 

whether  Rochebriant  could  still  be  retained  in  the  family.  Be- 
sides the  mortgages,  creditors  from  half  the  capitals  in  Eurojoe 
sent  in  their  claims  ;  and  all  the  movable  effects  transmitted  to 
Alain  by  his  father's  confidential  Italian  valet,  except  sundry 
carriages  and  horses  which  were  sold  at  Baden  for  what  they 
would  fetch,  were  a  magnificent  dressing-case,  in  the  secret 
drawer  of  which  were  some  bank-notes  amounting  to  thirty 
thousand  francs,  and  three  large  boxes  containing  the  Marquis's 
correspondence,  a  few  miniature  female  portraits,  and  a  great 
many  locks  of  hair. 

Wholly  unprepared  for  the  ruin  that  stared  him  in  the  face, 
the  young  Marquis  evinced  the  natural  strength  of  his  charac- 
ter by  the  calmness  with  which  he  met  the  danger,  and  the'  in- 
telligence with  which  he  calculated  and  reduced  it. 

By  the  help  of  the  family  notary  in  the  neighboring  town, 
he  made  himself  master  of  his  liabilities  and  his  means  ;  and  he 
found  that,  after  paying  all  debts  and  providing  for  the  interest 
of  the  mortgages,  a  property  which  ought  to  have  realized  a 
rental  of  ;i^i 0,000  a  year  yielded  not  more  than  ;^4oo.  Not 
was  even  this  margin  safe,  nor  the  property  out  of  peril  ;  for  the 
principal  mortgagee,  who  was  a  capitalist  in  Paris  named 
Louvier,  having  had  during  the  life  of  the  late  Marquis  more 
than  once  to  wait  for  his  half-yearly  interest  longer  than  suited 
his  patience — and  his  patience  was  not  enduring — plainly  de- 
clared that  if  the  same  delay  recurred  he  should  put  his  right  of 
seizure  in  force  ;  and  in  France  still  more  than  in  England  bad 
seasons  seriously  affect  the  security  of  rents.  To  pay  away 
;^96oo  a  year  regularly  out  of  ;^i 0,000,  with  the  penalty  of  for- 
feiting the  whole  if  not  paid,  whether  crops  may  fail,  farmers  pro- 
crastinate, and  timber  fall  in  price,  is  to  live  with  the  sword  of 
Damocles  over  one's  head. 

For  two  years  and  more,  however,  Alain  met  his  difficulties 
with  prudence  and  vigor ;  he  retrenched  the  establishment 
hitherto  kept  at  the  chateau,  resigned  such  rural  pleasures  as 
he  had  been  accustomed  to  indulge,  and  lived  like  one  of  his 
petty  farmers.  But  the  risks  of  the  future  remained  undimin- 
ished. 

"There  is  but  one  way,  Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  said  the  fam- 
ily notar}',  M.  Hebert,  "by  which  you  can  put  your  estate  in 
comparative  safety.  Your  father  raised  his  mortgages  from 
time  to  time,  as  he  wanted  money,  and  often  at  interest  above 
the  average  market  interest.  You  may  add  considerably  to 
your  income  by  consolidating  all  these  mortgages  into  one  at 
a  lower  percentage,  and  in  so  doing  pay  off  this  formidable 


THE  PARISIANS. 


27 


mortgagee,  M.  Louvier,  who,  I  shrewdly  suspect,  is  bent  upon 
becoming  the  proprietor  of  Rochcbriant.  Unfortunately,  those 
few  portions  of  j'our  land  which  were  but  lightly  charged,  and, 
lying  contiguous  to  small  proprietors,  were  coveted  by  them, 
and  could  be  advantageously  sold,  are  already  gone  to  pay  the 
debts  of  Monsieur  the  late   Marquis.     There  are,  however,  two 

small  farms,  which,  bordering  close  on  the  town  of   S I 

think  I  could  dispose  of  for  building  purposes  at  high  rates  ;  1  ut 
these  lands  are  covered  by  Monsieur  Louvier's  general  mort- 
gage, and  he  has  refused  to  release  them  unless  the  whole  debt 
be  paid.  Were  that  debt,  therefore,  transferred  to  another 
mortgage,  we  might  stipulate  for  their  exception,  and  in  so 
doing  secure  a  sum  of  more  than  100,000  francs,  which  you 
could  keep  in  reserve  for  a  pressing  or  unforeseen  occasion, 
and  make  the  nucleus  of  a  capital  devoted  to  the  gradual  liqui 
dation  of  the  charges  on  the  estate.  For  with  a  little  capital. 
Monsieur  le  Marquis,  your  rent-roll  might  be  very  greatly  in- 
creased, the  forests  and  orchards   improved,  those   meadows 

round  S drained  and   irrigated.     Agriculture  is  beginning 

to  be  understood  in  Bretagne,  and  3'our  estate  would  soon 
double  its  value  in  the  hands  of  a  spirited  capitalist.  My  ad- 
vice to  you,  therefore,  is  to  go  to  Paris,  employ  a  good  avoue, 
practiced  in  such  branch  of  his  profession,  to  negotiate  the 
consolidation  of  your  mortgages  upon  terms  that  will  enable 
you  to  sell  outlying  portions,  and  so  pay  ofif  the  charge  by  in- 
stallments agreed  upon  ; — to  see  if  some  safe  company  or  rich 
individual  can  be  found  to  undertake  for  a  term  of  years  the 

management  of  your  forests,  the  draining  of  the  S meadows, 

the  superintendence  of  your  fisheries,  etc.  They,  it  is  true, 
will  monopolize  the  profits  for  many  years — perhaps  twenty ; 
but  you  are  a  young  man  ;  at  the  end  of  that  time  you  will  re- 
enter on  your  estate  with  a  rental  so  improved  that  the  mort- 
gages, now  so  awful,  will  seem  to  you  comparatively  trivial." 

In  pursuance  of  this  advice,  the  young  Marquis  had  come 
to  Paris  fortified  with  a  letter  from  M.  Hebert  to  an  avoue  of 
eminence,  and  with  many  letters  from  his  aunt  to  the  nobles  of 
the  Faubourg  connected  with  his  house.  Now,  one  reason  why 
M.  Hebert  had  urged  his  client  to  undertake  this  important 
business  in  person,  rather  than  volunteer  his  own  sendees  in 
Paris,  was  somewhat  extra-professional.  He  had  a  sincere  and 
profound  affection  for  Alain ;  he  felt  compassion  for  that  young 
life  so  barrenly  wasted  in  seclusion  and  severe  privations  ;  he 
respected,  but  was  too  practical  a  man  of  business  to  share, 
those  chivalrous  sentiments  of  loyalty  to  an  exiled  dynasty 


25  THE  PARISIANS. 

which  disqualified  the  man  for  the  age  he  lived  in,  and,  if  not 
greatly  modified,  would  cut  him  off  from  the  hopes  and  aspira- 
tions of  his  eager  generation.  He  thought,  plausibly  enough, 
that  the  air  of  the  grand  metropolis  was  necessary  to  the  men- 
tal health,  enfeebled  and  withering  amidst  the  feudal  mists  of 
Bretagne  ;  that  once  in  Paris,  Alain  would  imbibe  the  ideas  of 
Paris,  adapt  himself  to  some  career  leading  to  honor  and  to  for- 
time,  for  which  he  took  facilities  from  his  high  birth,  an  histori- 
cal name  too  national  for  any  dynasty  not  to  welcome  among 
its  adherents,  and  an  intellect  not  yet  sharpened  by  contact  and 
competition  with  others,  but  in  itself  vigorous,  habituated  to 
thought,  and  vivified  by  the  noble  aspirations  which  belong  to 
imaginative  natures. 

At  the  least,  Alain  would  be  at  Paris  in  the  social  position 
which  would  afford  him  the  opportunities  of  a  marriage  in  which 
his  birth  and  rank  would  be  readily  accepted  as  an  equivalent 
to  some  ample  fortune  that  would  serve  to  redeem  the  endan- 
gered seigneuries.  He  therefore  warned  Alain  that  the  affair 
for  which  he  went  to  Paris  might  be  tedious,  that  lawyers  were 
always  slow,  and  advised  him  to  calculate  on  remaining  several 
months,  perhaps  a  year ;  delicately  suggested  that  his  rearing 
hitherto  had  been  too  secluded  for  his  age  and  rank,  and  that  a 
year  at  Paris,  even  if  he  failed  in  the  object  which  took  him 
there,  would  not  be  thrown  away  in  the  knowledge  of  men  and 
things  that  would  fit  him  better  to  grapple  with  his  difficulties 
on  his  return. 

Alain  divided  his  spare  income  between  his  aunt  and  him- 
self, and  had  come  to  Paris  resolutely  determined  to  live  within 
the  i^2oo  a  year  which  remained  to  his  share.  He  felt  the 
revolution  in  his  whole  being  which  commenced  when  out  of 
sight  of  the  petty  principality  in  which  he  was  the  object  of  that 
feudal  reverence,  still  surviving  in  the  more  unfrequented  parts 
of  Bretagne,  for  the  representatives  of  illustrious  names  con- 
nected with  the  immemorial  legends  of  the  province. 

The  very  bustle  of  a  railway,  with  its  crowd  and  quickness 
Aid  unceremonious  democracy  of  travel  served  to  pain  and  con- 
found and  humiliate  that  sense  of  individual  dignity  in  which 
he  had  been  nurtured.  He  felt  that,  once  away  from  Roche- 
briant,  he  was  but  a  cipher  in  the  sum  of  human  beings. 
Arrived  at  Paris,  and  reaching  the  gloomy  hotel  to  which  he 
had  been  recommended,  he  greeted  even  the  desolation  of  that 
solitude  which  is  usually  so  oppressive  to  a  stranger  in  the 
metropolis  of  his  native  land.  Loneliness  was  better  than  the 
loss  of  self   in  the  reek  and  pressure  of  an  unfamiliar   throng. 


THE  FARIS/ANS.  29 

For  the  first  few  days  he  had  wandered  over  Paris  without  call- 
ing even  on  the  avoiie  to  whom  M.  Hebert  liad  directed  him. 
He  felt  with  the  instinctive  acuteness  of  a  mind  which,  under 
sounder  training,  would  have  achieved  no  mean  distinction, 
that  it  was  a  safe  precaution  to  imbue  himself  with  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  place,  seize  on  those  general  ideas  which  in  grea< 
capitals  are  so  contagious  that  they  are  often  more  accuratel}! 
caught  by  the  first  impressions  than  by  subsequent  habit,  be- 
fore he  brought  his  mind  into  contact  with  those  of  the  individ- 
uals he  had  practically  to  deal  with. 

At  last  he  repaired  to  the  avoue,  M.  Gandrin,  Rue  St.  Flor- 
entin.  He  had  mechanically  formed  his  idea  of  the  abode  and 
person  of  an  avo7ie  from  his  association  with  M.  Hebert.  He 
expected  to  find  a  dull  house  in  a  dull  street  near  the  centre  of 
business,  remote  from  the  haunts  of  idlers,  and  a  grave  man  of 
unpretending  exterior  and  matured  years. 

He  arrived  at  a  hotel  newly  fronted,  richly  decorated,  in  the 
fashionable  quartier  close  by  the  Tuileries.  He  entered  a  wide 
porte-tochere,  and  was  directed  by  the  concierge  to  mount  an 
premier.  There,  first  detained  in  an  office  faultlessly  neat,  with 
spruce  young  men  at  smart  desks,  he  was  at  length  admitted 
into  a  noble  salon,  and  into  the  presence  of  a  gentleman  loung- 
ing in  an  easy  chair  before  a  magnificent  bureau  of  marqueferie, 
genre  Louts  Seize,  engaged  in  patting  a  white  curly  lapdog,  with 
a  pointed  nose  and  a  shrill  bark. 

The  gentleman  rose  politely  on  his  entrance,  and  released 
the  dog,  who,  after  sniffing  the  Marquis,  condescended  not  to 
bite. 

"  Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  said  M.  Gandrin,  glancing  at  the 
card  and  the  introductoiT  note  from  M.  Hebert,  which  Alain 
had  sent  in,  and  which  lay  on  the  secretaire  beside  heaps  of 
letters  nicely  arranged  and  labelled,  *'  charmed  to  make  the 
honor  of  your  acquaintance;  just  arrived  at  Paris.''  So  M 
Hebert — a  very  worthy  person,  whom  I  have  never  seen,  but 
with  whom  I  have  had  correspondence — tells  me  you  wish  for 
my  advice  :  in  fact,  he  wrote  to  me  some  days  ago,  mentioning 
the  business  in  question — consolidation  of  mortgages.  A  very 
large  sum  wanted,  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  and  not  to  be  had 
easily." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  Alain,  quietly,  "  T  should  imagine  that 
there  must  be  many  capitalists  in  Paris  willing  to  invest  in  good 
securities  at  fair  interest." 

"You  are  mistaken,  Marquis;  very  few  such  capitalists. 
Men  worth  money  nowackiys  like  quick  returns  and  large  profits. 


30 


THE  PARISIANS. 


thanks  to  the  magnificent  system  of  Credit  MohUier,  in  which  as 
you  are  aware,  a  man  may  place  his  money  in  any  trade  or 
speculation  without  liabilities  beyond  his  share.  Capitalists 
are  nearly  all  traders  or  speculators." 

"  Then,"  said  the  Marquis,  half  rising,  "  I  am  to  presume, 
sir,  that  you  are  not  likely  to  assist  me." 

"  No,  I  don't  say  that,  Marquis.  I  will  look  with  care  into 
the  matter.  Doubtless  you  have  with  you  an  abstract  of  the 
necessary  documents,  the  condition  of  the  present  mortgages,  the 
rental  of  the  estate,  its  probable  prospects,  and  so  forth." 

"  Sir,  I  have  such  an  abstract  with  me  at  Paris  ;  and,  having 
gone  into  it  myself  with  M.  Hebert,  I  can  pledge  you  my  word 
that  it  is  strictly  faithful  to  the  facts." 

The  Marquis  said  this  with  tiaive  simplicity,  as  if  his  words 
were  quite  suiBcient  to  set  that  part  of  tlie  question  at  rest. 

M.  Gandrin  smiled  politely,  and  said,  ^^  Eh  bien,  M.  le  Mar- 
quis, favor  me  with  the  abstract ;  in  a  week's  time  you  shall 
have  my  opinion.  You  enjoy  Paris  .''  Greatly  improved  under 
the  Emperor;  the  salons,  indeed,  are  hardly  open  yet.  A  pro- 
pose Madame  Gandrin  receives  to-morrow  evening  ;  allow  me 
that  opportunity  to  present  you  to  her." 

Unprepared  for  the  proffered  hospitality,  the  Marquis  had 
no  option  but  to  murmur  his  gratification  and  assent. 

In  a  minute  more  he  was  in  the  streets.  The  next  evening 
he  went  to  Madame  Gandrin's — a  brilliant  reception — a  whole 
moving  flower-bed  of  "  decorations "  there.  Having  gone 
through  the  ceremony  of  presentation  to  Madame  Gandrin — a 
handsome  woman  dressed  to  perfection,  and  conversing  with  the 
secretary  to  an  embassy — the  young  noble  ensconced  himself  in 
an  obscure  and  quiet  corner,  observing  all,  and  imagining  thai 
he  escaped  observation.  And  as  the  young  men  of  his  own 
years  glided  by  him,  or  as  their  talk  reached  his  ears,  he  became 
aware  that  from  top  to  toe,  within  and  without,  he  was  old-fash- 
ioned, obselete,  not  of  his  race,  nor  of  his  day.  His  rank  itself 
seemed  to  him  a  waste-paper  title-deed  to  a  heritage  long 
hipsed.  Not  thus  the  princely  seigneurs  of  Rochebriant  made 
their  debut  at  the  capital  of  their  nation.  They  had  had  the 
entree  to  the  cabinets  of  their  kings  ;  they  had  glittered  in  the 
halls  of  Versailles ;  they  had  held  high  posts  of  distinction  in 
court  and  camp  ;  the  great  Order  of  St.  Louis  had  seemed  their 
hereditary  appanage.  His  father,  though  a  vohmtary  exile  in 
manhood,  had  been  in  childhood  a  king's  page,  and  throughout 
life  remained  the  associate  of  princes  ;  and  here,  in  an  avou^s 


TITE  PAIUSIAXS.  31 

soiree,    unknown,  unregarded,  an  expectant  on  an  avoue^s  pat- 
ronage, stood  the  last  loid  of  Rochebriant. 

It  is  easy  to  conceive  that  Alain  did  not  stay  long.  But  he 
stayed  long  enough  to  convince  him  that  on  ;^2oo  a  year  the 
polite  society  of  Paris,  even  as  seen  at  M.  Gandrin's,  was  not 
for  him.  Nevertheless,  a  day  or  two  after,  he  resolved  to  call 
upon  the  nearest  of  his  kinsmen  to  whom  his  aunt  had  given 
him  letters.  With  the  Count  de  Vandemar,  one  of  his  fellow- 
nobles  of  the  sacred  Faubourg,  he  should  be  no  less  Roche- 
briant  whether  in  a  garret  or  a  palace.  The  Vandemars,  in  fact, 
though  for  many  generations  before  the  First  Revolution  a  puis- 
sant and  brilliant  family,  had  always  recognized  the  Roche- 
briants  as  the  head  of  their  house — the  trunk  from  which  they 
had  been  slipped  in  the  fifteenth  century,  when  a  younger  son 
of  the  Rochebriants  married  a  wealthy  heiress  and  took  the 
title,  with  the  lands  of  Vandemar. 

Since  then  the  two  families  had  often  intermarried.  The 
present  Count  had  a  reputation  for  ability,  was  himself  a  large 
proprietor,  and  might  furnish  advice  to  guide  him  with  M. 
Gandrin.  The  Hotel  de  Vandemar  stood  facing  the  old  Hotel 
de  Rochebriant ;  it  was  less  spacious,  but  not  less  venerable, 
gloomy,  and  prison-like. 

As  he  turned  his  eyes  from  the  armorial  scutcheon  which 
still  rested,  though  chipped  and  mouldering,  over  the  portals  of 
his  lost  ancestral  house,  and  was  about  to  cross  the  street,  two 
young  men,  who  seemed  two  or  three  years  older  than  himself, 
emerged  on  horseback  from  the  Hotel  de  Vandemar. 

Handsome  young  men,  with  the  lofty  look  of  the  old  race, 
dressed  with  the  jjunctilious  care  of  person  which  is  not  fop- 
pery in  men  of  birth,  but  seems  part  of  the  self-respect  that  ap- 
pertains to  the  old  chivalric  point  of  honor.  The  horse  of  one 
of  these  cavaliers  made  a  caracole  which  brought  it  nearly  upon 
Alain  as  he  was  about  to  cross.  The  rider,  checking  his  steed, 
lifted  his  hat  to  Alain  and  uttered  a  word  of  apology  in  the  cour- 
tesy of  ancient  high-breeding,  but  still  with  condescension  as  to 
an  inferior.  This  little  incident,  and  the  slighting  kind  of  no- 
tice received  from  coevals  of  his  own  birth,  and  doubtless  his 
own  blood — for  he  divined  truly  that  they  were  the  sons  of  the 
Count  de  Vandemar — disconcerted  Alain  to  a  degree  which 
perhaps  a  Frenchman  alone  can  comprehenil.  He  had  even  half 
a  mind  to  give  up  his  visit  and  turn  back.  However,  his  native 
manhood  prevailed  over  that  morbid  sens  tiveness  which,  born 
out  of  the  union  of  pride  and  poverty,  has  all  the  effects  of  van- 
ity, and  yet  is  not  vanity  itself. 


32  THE  PARISIANS. 

The  Count  was  at  home,  a  thin  spare  man  with  a  narrow  but 
high  forehead,  and  an  expression  of  countenance  keen,  severe, 
and  uii  pen  moqueuse. 

He  received  the  marquis,  however,  at  first  with  great  cordi- 
ality,kissed  him  on  both  sides  of  his  cheek,  called  him  "  cousin,' 
expressed  immeasurable  regret  that  the  countess  was  gone  out 
on  one  of  the  missions  of  charity  in  which  the  great  ladies  of 
the  Faubourg  religiously  interest  themselves,  and  that  his  sons 
had  just  ridden  forth  to  the  Bois, 

As  Alain,  however,  proceeded,  simply  and  without  false 
shame,  to  communicate  the  object  of  his  visit  at  Paris,  the  ex- 
tent of  his  liabilities,  and  the  penury  of  his  means,  the  smile 
vanished  from  the  Count's  face  ;  he  somewhat  drew  back  his 
faiiteiiil  in  the  movement  common  to  men  who  wish  to  estrange 
themselves  from  some  other  man's  difficulties ;  and  when  Alain 
came  to  a  close,  the  Count  remained  some  moments  seized 
with  a  slight  cough ;  and,  gazing  intently  at  the  carpet, 
at  length  he  said,  "  My  dear  young  friend,  your  father  behaved 
extremely  ill  to  you — dis'honorably,  fraudulently." 

"  Hold  ! "  said  the  marquis,  coloring  high.  "  Those  are 
words  no  man  can  apply  to  my  father  in  my  presence." 

The  count  stared,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  replied  with 
sangfroid — 

"  Marquis,  if  you  are  contented  with  your  father's  conduct, 
of  course  it  is  no  business  of  mine  :  he  never  injured  me.  I 
presume,  however,  that,  considering  my  years  and  my  character, 
you  come  to  me  for  advice — is  it  so  1 " 

Alain  bowed  his  head  in  assent. 

"  There  are  four  courses  for  one  in  your  position  to  take," 
said  the  Count,  placing  the  index  of  the  right  hand  successively 
on  the  thumb  and  three  fingers  of  the  left — "four  courses,  and 
no  more. 

"  I  St.  To  do  as  your  notary  recommended  :  consolidate 
your  mortgages,  patch  up  your  income  as  you  best  can,  return 
to  Rochebriant,  and  devote  the  rest  of  your  existence  to  the 
preservation  of  your  property.  By  that  course  your  life  will 
be  one  permanent  privation,  severe  struggle  ;  and  the  proba- 
bility is  that  you  will  not  succeed  :  there  will  come  one  or  two 
bad  seasons,  the  farmers  will  fail  to  pay,  the  mortgagee  will 
foreclose,  and  you  may  find  yourself,  after  twenty  years  of 
anxiety  and  torment,  prematurely  old  and  without  a  soit. 

"Course  the  2d.  Rochebriant,  though  so  heavily  incum- 
bered as  to  yield  you  some  such  income  as  your  father  gave 
to  his  c/iif  de  cuisine,  is   still  one  of  those  superb  tares  which 


THE  PARISIANS. 


33 


bankers  and  Jews  and  stock-jobbers  court  and  hunt  after,  for 
which  they  will  give  enormous  sums.  If  you  place  it  in  good 
hands,  I  do  not  doubt  that  you  could  dispose  of  the  property 
within  three  months,  on  terms  that  would  leave  you  a  con- 
siderable surplus,  which,  invested  with  judgment,  would  afford 
you  whereon  you  could  live  at  Paris  in  a  way  suitable  to  your 
rank  and  age. — Need  we  go  further  ? — does  this  course  sniLe 
to  you  ?  " 

"  Pass  on.  Count ;  I  will  defend  to  the  last  what  I  take 
from  my  ancestors,  and  cannot  voluntarily  sell  their  roof-tree 
and  their  tombs." 

"  Your  name  would  still  remain,  and  you  would  be  just  as 
well  received  in  Paris,  and  your  noblesse  just  as  implicitly  con- 
ceded, if  all  Judea  encamped  upon  Rochebriant.  Consider 
how  few  of  us  gentilshommes  of  the  old  regime  have  any 
domains  left  to  us.  Our  names  alone  survive ;  no  revolution 
can  efface  them. 

"  It  may  be  so,  but  pardon  me  :  there  are  subjects  on  which 
we  cannot  reason — we  can  but  feel.  Rochebriant  may  be  torn 
from  me,  but  I  cannot  yield  it." 

"  I  proceed  to  the  third  course.  Keep  the  chateau  a'-^- 
give  up  its  traditions  ;  remain  de  facto  Marquis  of  Rochebriant, 
but  accept  the  new  order  of  things.  Make  yourself  known  to 
the  people  in  power.  They  will  be  charmed  to  welcome  you  ; 
— a  convert  from  the  old  noblesse  is  a  guarantee  of  stability  of 
the  new  system.  You  will  be  placed  in  diplomacy;  effloresce 
into  an  ambassador,  a  minister — and  ministers  nowadays  have 
opportunities  to  become  enormously  rich."' 

"  That  course  is  not  less  impossible  than  the  last.  Till 
Henry  V.  formally  resigns  his  right  to  the  throne  of  St.  Louis, 
I  can  be  servant  to  no  other  man  seated  on  that  throne." 

"  Such,  too,  is  my  creed,"  said  the  Count,  "  and  I  cling  to 
it ;  but  my  estate  is  not  mortgaged,  and  I  have  neither  the 
tastes  nor  the  age  for  public  employments.  The  last  course  is 
perhaps  better  than  the  rest ;  at  all  events  it  is  the  easiest.  A 
wealthy  marriage  ;  even  if  it  must  be  a  mesalilance.  1  think 
at  your  age,  with  your  appearance,  that  your  name  is  worth  at 
least  two  million  francs  in  the  eyes  of  a  rich  roturier  with  an 
ambitious  daughter." 

"  Alas  !  "  said  the  young  man,  rising,  "  I  see  I  shall  have 
to  go  back  to  Rochebriant.  I  cannot  sell  my  castle,  I  cannot 
sell  my  creed,  and  I  cannot  sell  my  name  and  myself." 

"  The  last  all  of  us  did  in  the  old  tegime.  Marquis,  Though 
I  still  retain  the   title  of  Yandemar,  my  property  comes  from 


24  THE  PAKJS/AA'S. 

the  Fariner-Oeneral's  daughter  whom  my  great-grandfather, 
happily  for  us,  married  in  the  days  of  Louis  Quinze.  Mar- 
riages with  people  of  sense  and  rank  have  always  been  manages 
de  convetiatice  in  France.  It  is  only  in  le petit  monde  that  men 
having  nothing  marry  girls  having  nothing,  and  I  don't  believe 
they  are  a  bit  happier  for  it.  On  the  contrary,  the  quarrels  de 
vie?iage  leading  to  frightful  crimes  appear  by  the  "  Gazette  de 
Iribunaux  "  to  be  chiefly  found  among  those  who  do  not  sell 
themselves  at  the  altar." 

The  old  Count  said  this  with  a  grim  persiflage.  He  was  a 
Voltairian. 

Voltairianism  deserted  by  the  modern  Liberals  of  France 
has  its  chief  cultivation  nowadays  among  the  wits  of  the 
old  regime.  They  pick  up  its  light  weapons  on  the  battle- 
field on  which  their  fathers  perished,  and  re-feather  against 
the  canaille  the  shafts  which  had  been  pointed  against  the 
noblesse. 

"  Adieu,  Count,"  said  Alain,  rising ;  "  I  do  not  thank  you 
less  for  your  advice  because  I  have  not  the  wit  to  profit  by  it." 

"  ^'-  Au  reroir,  my  cousin  ;  you  will  think  better  of  it  when 
you  have  been  a  month  or  two  at  Paris.  By  the  way,  my  wife 
receives  every  Wednesday  ;  consider  our  house  yours." 

"  Count,  can  I  enter  into  the  world  which  Madame  la  Com- 
tesse  receives,  in  the  way  that  becomes  my  birth,  on  the  income 
I  take  from  my  fortune  ?  " 

The  Count  hesitated.  "  No,"  said  he,  at  last,  frankly ; 
"  not  because  you  will  be  less  welcome  or  less  respected,  but 
because  I  see  that  you  have  all  the  pride  and  sensitiveness  of  a 
seigneur  de  province.  Society  would  therefore  give  you  pain, 
not  pleasure.  More  than  this,  I  know  by  the  remembrance  of 
my  own  youth,  and  the  sad  experience  of  my  own  sons,  that 
you  would  be  irresistibly  led  into  debt;  and  debt  in  your 
circumstances  would  be  the  loss  of  Rochebriant.  No  ;  I 
invite  you  to  visit  us.  I  offer  you  the  most  select  but  not  the 
most  brilliant  circles  of  Paris,  because  my  wife  is  religious, 
and  frightens  away  the  birds  of  gay  plumage  with  the  scare- 
crows of  priests  and  bishops.  But  if  you  accept  my  invitation 
and  my  olTer,  I  am  bound,  as  an  old  man  of  the  world  to  a 
young  kinsman,  to  say  that  the  chances  are  that  you  will  be 
ruined." 

"I  thank  you,  Count,  for  your  candor  ;  and  I  now  acknowl 
ed"e  that  1  have   fomid  a  relation  and  a  guide,"   answered  the 
Marquis,  with  a  nobility  of  mien  that  was  not  without  a  pathos 
which  touched  the  hard  heart  of  the  old  man. 


THE  PARISIANS. 


35 


"  Come  at  least  whenever  you  want  a  sincere  i(  a  rude 
friend;"  and  though  he  did  not  kiss  his  cousin's  cheek  this 
time,  he  gave  laim,  with  more  sincerity,  a  parting  shake  of  the 
hand. 

And  these  made  the  principal  events  in  Alain's  Paris  life 
till  he  met  Frederic  Lemercier.  Hitherto  he  had  received  no 
definite  answer  from  M.  Gandrin,  who  had  postponed  an  in- 
terview, not  having  had  leisure  to  make  himself  master  of  all 
the  details  in  the  abstract  sent  to  him. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


The  next  day,  towards  the  afternoon,  Frederic  Lemercier, 
somewhat  breathless  from  the  rapidity  at  which  he  had  ascend- 
ed to  so  high  an  eminence,  burst  into  Alain's  chamber. 

"  Frr  !  mofi  cher  ;  what  superb  exercise  for  the  health — • 
how  it  must  strengthen  the  muscles  and  expand  the  chest !  af- 
ter this,  who  should  shrink  from  scaling  Mount  Blanc  ? — Well, 
well.  I  have  been  meditating  on  your  business  ever  since  we 
parted.  But  I  would  fain  know  more  of  its  details.  You  shall 
confide  them  to  me  as  we  drive  through  the  Bois.  My  coupe  is 
below,  and  the  day  is  beautiful — come." 

To  the  young  Marquis,  the  gayety,  the  heartiness  of  his  col- 
lege friend  were  a  cordial.  How  different  from  the  dry  counsels 
of  the  Count  de  Vandemar  !  Hope,  though  vaguely,  entered 
into  his  heart.  Willingly  he  accepted  Frederic's  invitation,  and 
the  young  men  were  soon  rapidly  borne  along  the  Champs 
Elys^es.  As  briefly  as  he  could,  Alain  described  the  state  of 
his  affairs,  the  nature  of  his  mortgages,  and  the  result  of  his  in- 
terview with  M.  Gandrin. 

Frederic  listened  attentively.  "  Then  Gandrin  has  given  you 
as  yet  no  answer  ?  " 

"  None  :  but  I  have  a  note  from  him  this  morning  asking 
me  to  call  to-morrow." 

"  After  you  have  seen  him,  decide  on  nothing — if  he  makes 
you  any  offer,  get  back  your  abstract,  or  a  copy  of  it,  and  con- 
fide it  to  me.  Gandrin  ought  to  help  you ;  he  transacts  affairs 
in  a  large  way.  Belle  clientele  among  the  millionaires.  But 
his  clients  expect  fabulous  profits,  and   so  does  he.      As   for 


36  THE  PARISIANS. 

your  principal   mortgagee,  Louvier,  you  know  of  course  who 
he  is." 

"  No,  except  that  M.  Hebert  told  me  that  he  was  very  ricli." 

"  Rich — I  should  think  so  ;  one  of  the   Kings   of    F' nance 
Ah  !  observe  those  young  men  on  horseback." 

Alain  looked  forth  and  recognized  the  two  cavaliers  whom 
he  had  conjectured  to  be  the  sons  of  the  Count  de  Vandeniar. 

"  Those  beaux  gar  cons  are  fair  specimens  of  your  Faubourg," 
said  Frederic ;  "they  would  decline  my  acquaintance  because 
my  grandfather  kept  a  shop,  and  they  keep  a  shop  between 
them  ! " 

"  A  shop — I  am  mistaken,  then.     Who  are  they  .?  " 

"  Raoul  and  Enguerrand,  sons  of  that  mocker  of  man  the 
Count  de  Vandemar." 

"  And  they  keep  a  shop  !  you  are  jesting." 

"  A  shop  at  which  you  may  buy  gloves  and  perfumes,  Rue 
de  la  Chaussee  d'Antin.  Of  course  they  don't  serve  at  the 
counter  ;  they  only  invest  their  pocket-money  in  the  speculation, 
and  in  so  doing — treble  at  least  their  pocket-money,  buy  their 
horses,  and  keep  their  grooms." 

"  Is  it  possible  !  nobles  of  such  birth  !  How  shocked  the 
count  would  be  if  he  knew  it !  " 

"  Yes,  very  much  shocked  if  he  was  supposed  to  know  it. 
But  he  is  too  wise  a  father  not  to  give  his  sons  limited  allow- 
ances and  unlimited  liberty,  especially  the  liberty  to  add  to  the 
allowances  as  they  please.  Look  again  at  them  ;  no  better  riders 
and  more  affectionate  brothers  since  the  date  of  Castor  and 
Pollux.  Their  tastes,  indeed,  differ  :  Raoul  is  religious  and 
moral,  melancholy  and  dignified  ;  Enguerrand  is  a  lion  of  the 
first  water, — elegant  to  the  tips  of  his  nails.  These  demi-gods 
are  nevertheless  very  mild  to  mortals.  Though  Enguerrand  is 
the  best  pistol-shot  in  Paris,  and  Raoul  the  best  fencer,  the  first 
is  so  good-tempered  that  you  would  be  a  brute  to  quarrel 
with  him  ;  the  last  so  true  a  Catholic,  that  if  you  quarrelled 
with  him  you  need  not  fear  his  sword.  He  would  not  die  in  the 
committal  of  what  the  Church  holds  a  mortal  sin." 

"  Are  you  speaking  ironically  ?  Do  you  mean  to  imply  that 
men  of  the  name  of  Vandemar  are  not  brave  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrar}^  I  believe  that,  though  masters  of  their 
weapons,  they  are  too  brave  to  abuse  their  skill ;  and  I  must  add, 
that  though  they  are  sleeping  partners  in  a  shop,  they  would 
not  cheat  you  of  a  farthing. — Benign  stars  on  earth,  as  Castor 
and  Pollux  were  in  heaven." 

"  But  partners  in  a  shop  1  " 


37 


THE  PARISIANS. 

"  Bah  !  when  a  minister  himself,  like  the  late  M.  de  M , 

kept  a  shop,  and  added  the  profits  of  bonbons  to  his  revenue, 
you  may  form  some  idea  of  the  spirit  of  the  age.  If  young 
nobles  are  not  generally  sleeping  partners  in  shops,  still  they 
are  more  or  less  adventurers  in  commerce.  The  Bourse  is  the 
profession  of  those  who  have  no  other  profession.  You  have 
visited  the  Bourse  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  No  !  this  is  just  the  hour  ;  we  have  time  yet  for  the  Bois- 
— Coachman,  drive  to  the  Boiirse." 

"  The  fact  is,"  resumed  Frederic,  "  that  gambling  is  one  of 
the  wants  of  civilized  men.  The  ro//g^e  et  noir  and  roulette  tables 
are  forbidden — the  hells  closed ;  but  the  passion  for  making 
money  without  working  for  it  must  have  its  vent,  and  that  vent 
is  the  Bourse.  As  instead  of  a  hundred  vvaxlights  you  now 
have  one  jet  of  gas,  so  instead  of  a  hundred  hells  you  have  now 
one  Bourse,  and — it  is  exceedingly  convenient ;  always  at  hand  ; 
no  discredit  being  seen  there,  as  it  was  to  be  seen  at  Frascati's 
— on  the  contrary,  at  once  respectable,  and  yet  the  mode." 

The  coupe  stops  at  the  Bourse.,  our  friends  mount  the  steps, 
glide  through  the  pillars,  deposit  their  canes  at  a  place  destined 
to  guard  them,  and  the  marquis  follows  Frederic  up  a  flight  of 
stairs  till  he  gains  the  open  gallery  round  a  vast  hall  below. 
Such  a  din  !  such  a  clamor  !  disputations,  wrangling,  wrathful. 

Here  Lemercier  distinguished  some  friends,  whom  he  joined 
for  a  few  minutes. 

Alain,  left  alone,  looked  down  into  the  hall.  He  thought  him- 
self in  some  stormy  scene  of  the  First  Revolution.  An  English 
contested  election  in  the  marketplace  of  a  borough  when  the 
candidates  are  running  close  on  each  other,  the  result  doubtful, 
passions  excited,  the  whole  borough  in  Civil  war,  is  peaceful 
compared  to  the  scene  at  the  Bourse. 

Bulls  and  bears  screaming,  bawling,  gesticulating,  as  if  one 
were  about  to  strangle  the  other  ;  the  whole,  to  an  uninitiated 
eye,  a  confusion,  a  Babel,  which  it  seems  absolutely  impossible 
to  reconcile  to  the  notion  of  quiet  mercantile  transactions,  the 
purchase  and  sale  of  shares  and  stocks.  As  Alain  gazed  bewil- 
dered, he  felt  himself  gently  touched,  and,  looking  round,  saw 
the  Englishman. 

"  A  lively  scene  !  "  whispered  Mr.  Vane.  "  This  is  the  heart 
of  Paris  :  it^'beats  very  loudly." 

"  Is  your  Bourse  in  London  like  this  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you ;  at  our  Exchange  the  general  public  are 
not  admitted  ;  the  privileged  priests  of  that  temple  sacrifice 


38  THE  PAKISTAN'S. 

their  victims  in  closed  penetralia,  beyond  which  the  sounds 
made  in  the  operation  do  not  travel  to  ears  profane.  But  had 
we  an  Exchange,  like  this,  open  to  all  the  world,  and  placed, 
not  in  a  region  of  our  metropolis  unknown  to  fashion,  but  in 
some  elegant  square  in  St.  James's  or  at  Hyde  Park  Corner,  I 
suspect  that  our  national  character  would  soon  undergo  a  great 
change,  and  that  our  idlers  and  sporting-men  would  make  their 
books  there  every  day,  instead  of  waiting  long  months  in  ennui 
tor  the  Doncaster  and  the  Derby.  At  present  we  have  but  few 
men  on  the  turf  ;  we  should  then  have  few  men  not  on  ex- 
change, especially  if  we  adopt  your  law,  and  can  contrive  to  be 
traders  without  risk  of  becoming  bankrupts.  Napoleon  I.  called 
us  a  shopkeeping  nation.  Napoleon  III.  has  taught  France 
to  excel  us  in  everything,  and  certainly  he  has  made  Paris  a 
shopkeeping  city." 

Alain  thought  of  Raoul  and  Enguerrand,  and  blushed  to  find 
that  what  he  considered  a  blot  on  his  countrymen  was  so  famil- 
iarly perceptible  to  a  foreigner's  eye. 

"  And  the  Emperor  has  done  wisely,  at  least  for  the  time," 
continued  the  Englishman,  with  a  more  thoughtful  accent.  "  He 
has  found  vent  thus  for  that  very  dangerous  class  of  Paris  soci- 
ety to  which  the  subdivision  of  property  gave  birth — viz.,  the 
crowd  of  well-born,  daring  young  men  without  fortune  and  with- 
out profession.  He  has  opened  the  Bourse  and  said,  '  There, 
I  give  you  employment,  resource,  an  avenir.^  He  has  cleared 
the  byways  into  commerce  and  trade,  and  opened  new  avenues 
of  wealth  to  the  noblesse,  whom  the  great  Revolution  so  unwisely 
beggared.  What  other  way  to  rebuild  a  noblesse  in  France,  and 
give  it  a  chance  of  power  because  an  access  to  fortune  !  But  to 
how  many  sides  of  your  national  character  has  the  Bourse  of 
Paris  magnetic  attraction !  You  Frenchmen  are  so  brave  that 
you  could  not  be  happy  without  facing  danger,  so  covetous  of 
distinction  that  you  would  pine  yourself  away  without  a  dash, 
(oute  que  coute,  at  celebrity  and  a  red  ribbon.  Danger  !  look 
below  at  that  arena — there  it  is  ;  danger  daily,  hourly.  But 
there  also  is  celebrity  ;  win  at  the  Bourse,  as  of  old  in  a  tourna- 
ment, and  paladins  smile  on  you,  and  ladies  give  you  their 
scarves,  or,  what  is  much  the  same,  they  allow  you  to  buy  their 
cachanire.  Win  at  the  Bourse — what  follows  ?  the  Chamber, 
the  Senate,  the  Cross,  the  Minister's  porte-feuille.  I  might  re- 
joice in  all  this  for  the  sake  of  Europe — could  it  last,  and  did  it 
not  bring  the  consequences  that  follow  the  demoralization  which 
attend  it.  The  Bourse  T^wdi  the  Credit  Mobiller  keep  Paris  quiet 
at  least  as  quiet  as  it  can  be.     These   are  the  secrets  of  this 


THE  PARISIANS. 


39 


reign  of  splendor  ;  these  the  two  lions  couchants  on  which  rests 
the  throne  of  the  Imperial  reconstructor." 

Alain  listened,  surprised  and  struck.  He  had  not  given  the 
Englishman  credit  for  the  cast  of  mind  which  such  reflections 
evinced. 

Here  Lemercier  rejoined  them,  and  shook  hands  with  Gra- 
ham Vane,  who,  taking  him  aside,  said,  "  But  you  promised  to 
go  to  the  Bois  and  indulge  my  insane  curiosity  about  the  lady 
in  the  pearl-colored  robe  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  ;  it  is  not  half-past  two  yet ;  you  said 
three,  Soyez  tranqicille ;  I  drive  thither  from  the  Bourse  with 
Rochebriant." 

"  Is  it  necessary  to  take  with  you  that  very  good-looking 
marquis  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  were  not  jealous,  because  not  yet 
in  love.  However,  if  Rochebriant  occasions  you  the  pang 
which  your  humble  servant  failed  to  inflict,  I  will  take  care  that 
he  do  not  see  the  lady." 

"  No,"  said  the  Englishman ;  "  on  consideration,  I  should  be 
veiy  much  obliged  to  any  one  with  whom  she  would  fall  in  love. 
That  would  disenchant  me.     Take  the  marquis  by  all  means." 

Meanwhile  Alain,  again  looking  down,  saw  just  under  him, 
close  by  one  of  the  pillars,  Lucien  Duplessis.  He  was  standing 
apart  from  the  throng — a  small  space  cleared  round  himself  and 
two  men  who  had  the  air  of  gentlemen  of  the  beau  77ionde,  with 
whom  he  was  conferring.  Duplessis  thus  seen  \vas  not  like  the 
Duplessis  at  the  restaurant.  It  would  be  difficult  to  explain 
what  the  change  was,  but  it  forcibly  struck  Alain  :  the  air 
was  more  dignified,  the  expression  keener ;  there  was  a  look 
of  conscious  power  and  command  about  the  man  even 
at  that  distance ;  the  intense,  concentrated  intelligence  of 
his  eye  ;  his  firm  lip,  his  marked  features,  his  projecting,  mas- 
sive brow,  would  have  impressed  a  very  ordinary  observer.  In 
fact,  the  man  was  here  in  his  native  element — in  the  field  in 
which  his  intellect  gloried,  commanded,  and  had  signalized 
itself  by  successive  triumphs.  Just  thus  may  be  the  change  in 
th(^  great  orator  whom  you  deemed  insignificant  in  a  drawing- 
ro(;m,  when  you  see  his  crest  rise  above  a  reverential  audience  ; 
or  the  great  soldier,  who  was  not  distinguishable  from  the  sub- 
altern in  a  peaceful  club,  could  you  see  him  issuing  the  order  to 
his  aides-de-camp  amidst  the  smoke  and  roar  of  the  battle-field 

"Ah,  marquis!"  said  Graham  Vane,  "are  you  gazing  at 
Duplessis  ?  He  is  the  modern  genius  of  Paris.  He  is  at  once 
the   Cousin,  the   Guizot,  and  the  Victor  Hugo  of  speculation, 


40 


THE  PARISIANS. 


Philosophy — Eloquence — audacious  Romance, — all  Literature 
now  is  swallowed  up  in  the  sublime  epic  of  Agiotage,  and  Du- 
plessis  is  the  poet  of  the  Empire." 

"  Well  said,  M.  Grarm  Varn,"  cried  Frederic,  forgetting 
his  recent  lesson  in  English  names.  "  Alain  underrates  that  great 
man.     How  could  an  Englishman  appreciate  him  so  M'ell  ?  " 

'■^Mafot/"  returned  Graham,  quietly,  "I  am  studying  to 
tk'.nk  at  Paris,  in  order  some  day  or  other  to  know  how  to  act 
in  Eondon.  Time  for  the  Bois.  Lemercier,  we  meet  at  seven 
—Philippe's." 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  Bourse  1  "  asked  Lemercier,  as 
their  carriage  took  the  way  to  the  Bois. 

"  I  cannot  think  of  it  yet  ;  I  am  stunned.  It  seems  to  me 
as  if  I  had  been  at  a  Sabbat,  of  which  the  wizards  were  agents 
de  change,  but  not  less  bent  upon  raising  Satan." 

"  Pooh  !  the  best  way  to  exorcise  Satan  is  to  get  rich  enough 
not  to  be  tempted  by  him.  The  fiend  always  loved  to  haunt 
empty  places  ;  and  of  all  places  nowadays  he  prefers  empty 
purses  and  empty  stomachs." 

"  But  do  all  people  get  rich  at  the  Bourse  1  or  is  not  one 
man's  wealth  many  men's  ruin  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  question  not  very  easy  to  answer  ;  but  under  our 
present  system  Paris  gets  rich,  though  at  the  expense  of  indi- 
vidual Parisians.  I  will  try  and  explain.  The  average  luxury 
is  enormously  increased  even  in  my  experience  ;  what  were 
once  considered  refinements  and  fopperies  are  now  called  ne- 
cessary comforts.  Prices  are  risen  enormously, — house-rent 
doubled  within  the  last  five  or  six  years  ;  all  articles  of  luxury 
are  very  much  dearer ;  the  very  gloves  I  wear  cost  twenty  per 
cent,  more  than  I  used  to  pay  for  gloves  of  the  same  quality. 
How  the  people  we  meet  live,  and  live  so  well,  is  an  enigma 
that  would  defy  GLdipus  if  QLdipus  were  not  a  Parisian.  But 
the  main  explanation  is  this  :  speculation  and  commerce,  with 
the  facilities  given  to  all  investments,  have  really  opened  more 
numerous  and  more  rapid  ways  to  fortune  than  were  known  a 
few  years  ago. 

"  Crowds  are  thus  attracted  to  Par's,  resolved  to  venture  a 


THE  PARISIANS.  41 

small  capital  in  the  hope  of  a  large  one  ;  they  live  on  that  caph 
ital,  not  on  their  income,  as  gamesters  do.  There  is  an  idea 
among  us  that  it  is  necessary  to  s&em  rich  in  order  to  become 
rich.  Thus  there  is  a  general  extravagance  and  profusion. 
English  tnilords  marvel  at  our  splendor.  Those  who,  while 
spending  their  capital  as  their  income,  fail  in  their  schemes  of 
fortune,  after  one,  two,  three,  or  four  years — vanish.  Wiiat 
becomes  of  them  I  know  no  more  than  I  do  what  becomes  of 
the  old  moons.  Their  place  is  immediately  supplied  by  new 
candidates.  Paris  is  thus  kept  perennially  sumptuous  and 
splendid  by  the  gold  it  engulfs.  But  then  some  men  succeed — 
succeed  prodigiously,  preternaturally ;  they  make  colossal  for- 
tunes, which  are  magnificently  expended.  They  set  an  example 
of  show  and  pomp,  which  is  of  course  the  more  contagious  be- 
cause so  many  men  say,  'The  other  day  those  millionaires  were 
as  poor  as  we  are  ;  they  never  economized  ;  why  should  we  ? ' 
Paris  is  thus  doubly  enriched — by  tlie  -fortunes  it  swallows  up, 
and  by  the  fortunes  it  casts  up  ;  the  last  being  always  reproduc- 
tive, and  the  first  never  lost  except  to  the  individuals." 

"  I  imderstand  :  but  what  struck  me  forcibly  at  the  scene  we 
have  left  was  the  number  of  young  men  there ;  young  men 
whom  I  should  judge  by  their  appearance  to  be  gentlemen,  evi- 
dently, not  mere  spectators — eager,  anxious,  with  tablets  in  their 
hands.  That  old  or  middle-aged  men  should  find  a  zest  in  the 
pursuit  of  gain  I  can  understand,  but  youth  and  avarice  seems 
to  me  a  new  combination,  which  Moliere  never  divined  in  his 
'Avarer' 

"  Young  men,  especially  if  young  gentlemen,  love  pleasure  ; 
and  pleasure  in  this  city  is  very  dear.  This  explains  why  so 
many  young  men  frequent  the  Bourse.  In  the  old  gaming- 
tables now  suppressed,  young  men  were  the  majority ;  in  the 
days  of  your  chivalrous  forefathers  it  was  the  young  nobles,  not 
the  old,  who  would  stake  their  very  mantles  and  swords  on  a 
cast  of  the  die.  And  naturally  enough,  mon  cher  ;  for  is  not 
youth  the  season  of  hope,  and  is  not  hope  the  goddess  of  gam- 
mg  whether  at  rouge  et  noir  or  the  Bourse  1  " 

Main  felt  himself  more  and  more  behind  his  generation. 
The  acute  reasoning  of  Lemercier  humbled  his  amour propre. 
At  college  Lemercier  was  never  considered  Alain's  equal  in 
ability  or  book-learning.  What  a  stride  beyond  his  school- 
fellow had  Lemercier  now  made  !  How  dull  and  stupid  the 
young  provincial  felt  himself  to  be,  as  compared  with  the  easy 
cleverness  and  half-sportive  philosophy  of  the  Parisia^'^i  fluent 
talk 


42  THE  PARISIANS. 

He  sighed  witli  a  melancholy  and  yet  with  a  generous  envy. 
He  had  too  fine  a  natural  preception  not  to  acknowledge  that 
there  is  a  rank  of  mind  as  well  as  birth,  and  in  the  first  he  felt 
that  Lemercier  might  well  walk  before  a  Rochebriant ;  but  his 
very  humility  was  a  proof  that  he  underrated  himself. 

Lemercier  did  not  excel  him  in  mind,  but  in  experience. 
And  just  as  the  drilled  soldier  seems  a  much  finer  fellow  than 
the  raw  recruit,  because  he  knows  how  to  carry  himself,  but 
after  a  year's  discipline  the  raw  recruit  may  excel  in  martial  air 
the  upright  hero  whom  he  now  despairingly  admires,  and  never 
dreams  he  can  rival ;  so  set  a  mind  from  a  village  into  the  drill 
of  a  capital,  and  see  it  a  year  after  ;  it  may  tower  a  head  higher 
than  its  recruiting  sergeant. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  I  BELIEVE,"  said  Lemercier,  as  the  coupe,  rolled  through  the 
lively  alleys  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  "  that  Paris  is  built  on  a 
loadstone,  and  that  every  Frenchman  with  some  iron  globules 
in  his  blood  is  irresistibly  attracted  towards  it.  The  English 
never  seem  to  feel  for  London  the  passionate  devotion  that  we 
feel  for  Paris.  On  the  contrary,  the  London  middle  class,  the 
commercialists,  the  shopkeepers,  the  clerks,  even  the  superior 
artisans  compelled  to  do  their  business  in  the  capital,  seem 
always  scheming  and  pining  to  have  their  home  out  of  it.  though 
but  in  a  suburb." 

"  You  have  been  in  London,  Frederic  ?  " 

"  Of  course  ;  it  is  the  mode  to  visit  that  dull  and  hideoui 
metropolis." 

"  If  it  be  dull  and  hideous,  no  wonder  the  people  who  are 
compelled  to  do  business  in  it  seek  the  pleasures  of  home  out 
of  it." 

"  It  is  very  droll  that  though  the  middle  class  entirely  gov- 
ern the  melancholy  Albion,  it  is  the  only  country  in  Europe  in 
which  the  middle  class  seem  to  have  no  amusements  ;  nay,  they 
legislate  against  amusement.  They  have  no  leisure  day  but 
Sunday;  and  on  that  day  they  close  all  the  theatres — even  their 
museum  and  picture-galleries.  What  amusements  there  may  be 
in  England  are  for  the  higher  classes  and  the  lowest." 

"  What  are  the  amusements  of  the  lowest  class  ?  " 


THE  FARISTAh  S,  43 

"  Getting  drunk." 

*•  Nothing  else  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  was  taken  at  night  under  protection  of  a  policeman 
to  some  cabarets^  where  I  found  crowds  of  that  class  which  is 
the  stratum  below  the  working  class;  lads  who  sweep  crossings 
and  hold  horses,  mendicants,  and,  I  was  told,  thieves,  girls 
whom  a  servant-maid  would  not  speak  to — very  merry — dan- 
cing quadrilles  and  waltzes,  and  regaling  themselves  on  sau- 
sages— the  happiest-looking  folks  I  found  in  all  London — and, 
I  must  say,  conducting  themselves  very  decently." 

"  Ah  !  "  Here  Lemercier  pulled  the  check-string.  "  Will 
you  object  to  a  walk  in  this  quiet  alley  ?  I  sec  some  one  whom 
I  have  promised  the  Englishman  to— But  heed  me,  Alain ; 
don't  fall  iu  love  with  her." 


CHAPTER  VH. 


The  lady  in  the  pearl  colored  dress !  Certainly  it  was  a 
face  that  might  well  arrest  the  eye  and  linger  long  on  the  re- 
membrance. 

There  are  certain  "beauty-women,"  as  there  are  certain 
"  beauty-men,"  in  whose  features  one  detects  no  fault — who  are 
the  show  figures  of  any  assembly  in  which  they  appear — but 
who,  somehow  or  other,  inspire  no  sentiment  and  excite  no  in- 
terest ;  they  lack  some  expression,  whether  of  mind,  or  of  soul, 
or  of  heart,  without  which  the  most  beautiful  face  is  but  a  beau- 
tiful picture.  This  lady  was  not  one  of  those  "  beauty-women." 
Her  features  taken  singly  were  by  no  means  perfect,  nor  were 
they  set  off  by  any  brilliancy  of  coloring.  But  the  countenance 
aroused  and  impressed  the  imagination  with  a  belief  that  there 
was  some  history  attached  to  it  which  you  longed  to  learn, 
llie  hair,  simply  parted  over  a  forehead  unusually  spacious  and 
high  for  a  woman,  was  of  lustrous  darkness  ;  the  eyes,  of  a  deep 
violet  blue,  were  shaded  with  long  lashes. 

Tlieir  expression  was  soft  and  mournful,  but  unobservant. 
She  did  not  notice  Alain  and  Lemercier  as  the  two  men  slowly 
passed  her.  She  seemed  abstracted,  gazing  into  space  as  one 
absorbed  in  thought  or  reverie.  Her  complexion  was  clear  and 
pale,  and  apparently  betokened  delicate  health. 

Lemercier  seated  himself  on  a  bench  beside  the  path,  and 


44  THE  PARISIANS. 

invited  Alain  to  do  the  same.  "  She  will  return  this  way  soon," 
said  the  Parisian,  "  and  we  can  observe  her  more  attentively 
and  more  respectfully  thus  seated  than  if  we  were  on  foot ; 
meanwhile,  what  do  you  think  of  her? — is  she  French,  is  she 
Italian  ? — can  she  be  English  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  guessed  Italian,  judging  by  the  darkness  of 
the  hair  and  the  outline  of  the  features  ;  but  do  Italians  have 
so  delicate  a  fairness  of  complexion  ?  " 

"  Very  rarely  ;  and  I  should  guess  her  to  be  French,  judging 
by  the  intelligence  of  her  expression,  the  simple  neatness  of 
her  dress,  and  by  that  nameless  refinement  of  air  in  which  a 
Farisienne  excels  all  the  descendants  of  Eve — if  it  were  not  for 
her  eyes.  I  never  saw  a  Frenchwoman  with  eyes  of  that  pecu- 
liar shade  of  blue  ;  and  if  a  Frenchwoman  had  such  eyes,  I 
flatter  myself  she  would  have  scarcely  allowed  us  to  pass  with- 
out making  some  use  of  them." 

"  Do  you  think  she  is  married  .''  "  asked  Alain. 

"  I  hope  so — for  a  girl  of  her  age,  if  comme  il  /ant,  can 
scarcely  walk  alone  in  the  Bois,  and  would  not  have  acquired 
that  look  so  intelligent— more  than  intelligent — so  poetic." 

"  But  regard  that  air  of  unmistakable  distinction,  regard 
that  expression  of  face — so  pure,  so  virginal  :  cofti7ne  ilfaiU  she 
must  be." 

As  Alain  said  these  last  words,  the  lady,  who  had  turned 
back,  was  approaching  them,  and  in  full  view  of  their  gaze. 

She  seemed  unconscious  of  their  existence  as  before,  and 
Leinercier  noticed  that  her  lips  moved  as  if  she  were  murmur- 
ing in  audibly  to  herself. 

She  did  not  return  again,  but  continued  her  walk  straight 
on  till  at  the  end  of  the  alley  she  entered  a  carriage  in  waitiiv^ 
for  her,  and  was  driven  off. 

"  Quick,  quick  !  "  cried  Lemercier,  running  towards  his  own 
coupe ;  "  we  must  give  chase." 

Alain  followed  somewhat  less  hurriedly,  and  agreeably  to 
inslruclions  Lemercier  had  already  given  to  his  coachman,  the 
Parisian's  coupe  set  off  at  full  speed  in  the  track  of  the  strange 
lady's,  which  was  still  in  sight. 

In  less  than  twenty  minutes  the  carriage  in  chase  stopped 
al  the  grille  of  one  of  those   charming  little  villas  to  be  found 

in  the  pleasant  suburb  of  A ;   a  porter  emerged  from  the 

lodge,  opened  the  gate  ;  the  carriage  drove  in,  again  stopped  at 
thcdoor  of  the  house,  and  the  tw^o  gentlemen  could  not  catch 
even  a  glimpse  of  the  lady's  robe  as  she  descended  from  the 
carriage  and  disappeared  within  the  house. 


THE  PARISIAXS. 


45 


"  I  see  a  cofe  j^onder,"  said  Lemercier  ;  "  let  us  learn  all  we 
can  as  to  the  fair  unknown,  over  a  sorbet  or  ?l  petit  icrre,'^ 

Alain  silently,  but  not  reluctantly,  consented.  He  felt  in 
the  fair  stranger  an  interest  new  to  his  existence. 

They  entered  the  little  cafe,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Lemercier, 
with  the  easy  savoir  vivre  of  a  Parisian,  had  extracted  from  the 
garcon  as  much  as  probably  any  one  in  the  neighborhood  knew 
of  the  inhabitants  of  the  villa. 

It  had  been  hired  and  furnished  about  two  months  pre 
viously  in  the  name  of  Signora  Venosta ;  but,  according  to  the 
report  of  the  servants,  that  lady  appeared  to  be  the  gouvernante 
or  guardian  of  a  lady  much  younger,  out  of  whose  income  the 
villa  was  rented  and  the  household  maintained. 

It  was  for  her  the  coupe  was  hired  from  Paris.  The  elder 
lady  very  rarely  stirred  out  during  the  day,  but  always  accom- 
panied the  younger  in  any  evening  visits  to  the  theatre  or  the 
houses  of  friends. 

It  \\as  only  within  the  last  few  weeks  that  such  visits  had 
been  made. 

The  younger  lady  was  in  delicate  health,  and  under  the  care 
of  an  English  physician  famous  for  skill  in  the  treatment  of 
pulmonary  complaints.  It  was  by  his  advice  that  she  took 
daily  walking  exercise  in  the  Bois.  The  establishment  con- 
sisted of  three  servants,  all  Italians,  and  speaking  but  imper- 
fect French.  The  garcon  did  not  know  whether  either  of  the 
ladies  was  married,  but  their  mode  of  life  was  free  from  all 
scandal  or  suspicion  ;  they  probably  belonged  to  the  literary  or 
musical  world,  as  the  garcon  had  observed  as  their  visitor  the 
eminent  author  M.  Savarin  and  his  wife,  and,  still  more  fre- 
quently, an  old  man  not  less  eminent  as  a  musical  composer. 

"  It  is  clear  to  me  now,"  said  Lemercier,  as  the  two  friends 
reseated  themselves  in  the  carriage,  "  that  our  pearly  ange  is 
some  Italian  singer  of  repute  enough  in  her  own  country  to 
have  gained  already  a  competence  ;  and  that,  perhaps  on  ac- 
count of  her  own  health  or  her  friend's,  she  is  living  quietly 
here  in  the  expectation  of  some  professional  engagement,  or 
the  absence  of  some  foreign  lover." 

"  Lover  !  do  you  think  that  ?  "  exclaimed  Alain,  in  a  tone  of 
voice  that  betrayed  pain.  ^ 

"  It  is  possible  enough  ;  and  in  that  case  the  Englishman 
may  profit  little  by  the  information  I  have  promised  to  give  him." 

"  You  have  promised  the  Englishman  ?  " 

"  Do  you  not  remember .  last  night  that  he  described  the 
lady,  and  said  that  her  face  haunted  him  ;  and  I " 


46  THE  PARISlAArS, 

"  Ah  !  I  remember  now.  What  do  you  know  of  this  Eng- 
lishman ?     He  is  rich,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  I  hear  he  is  very  rich  now ;  that  an  uncle  lately  left 
him  an  enormous  sum  of  money.  He  was  attached  to  the 
English  Embassy  many  years  ago,  which  accounts  for  his  good 
French  and  his  knowledge  of  Parisian  life.  He  comes  to  Paris 
v^ery  often,  and  I  have  known  him  some  time.  Indeed,  he  has 
intrusted  to  me  a  difficult  and  delicate  commission.  The  Eng- 
lish tell  me  that  his  father  was  one  of  the  most  eminent  mem- 
bers of  their  Parliament,  of  ancient  birth,  very  highly  connected, 
but  ran  out  his  fortune  and  died  poor  ;  that  our  friend  had  for 
some  years  to  maintain  himself,  I  fancy,  by  his  pen  ;  that  he  is 
considered  very  able  ;  and,  now  that  his  uncle  has  enriched 
him,  likely  to  enter  public  life  and  run  a  career  as  distinguish- 
ed as  his  father's." 

"  Happy  man  !  happy  are  the  English,"  said  the  Marquis, 
with  a  sigh  ;  and  as  the  carriage  now  entered  Paris,  he  pleaded 
the  excuse  of  an  engagement,  bade  his  friend  good-by,  and 
went  his  way  musing  through  the  crowded  streets. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LETTER    FROM    ISAURA    CICOGNA    TO     MADAME    DE    GRANTMESNIL, 

Villa  D' ,  A . 

I  CAN  never  express  to  you,  my  beloved  Eulalie,  the  strange 
charm  which  a  letter  from  you  throws  over  my  poor  little  lonely 
world  for  days  after  it  is  received.  There  is  always  in  it  some- 
:hing  that  comforts,  something  that  sustains,  but  also  a  some- 
thing that  troubles  and  disquiets  me.  I  suppose  Goethe  is 
right,  "  that  it  is  the  jKoperty  of  true  genius  to  disturb  all 
sellled  ideas,"  in  order,  no  doubt,  to  lift  them  into  a  higher 
level  when  they  settle  down  again. 

Your  sketch  of  the  new  work  you  are  meditating  amid  the 
orange-groves  of  Provence  interests  me  intensely  ;  yet,  do  \ou 
forgive  me  when  I  add  that  the  interest  is  not  without  terror  1 
I  do  not  find  myself  able  to  comprehend  how,  amid  those 
lovely  scenes  of  nature,  your  mind  voluntarily  surrounds  itself 


THE  PARISIANS.  47 

with  images  of  pain  and  discord.  I  stand  in  awe  of  the  calm 
with  which  you  subject  to  your  analysis  the  infirmities  of  rea- 
son and  the  tumults  of  passion.  And  all  those  laws  of  the 
social  state  which  seem  to  me  so  fixed  and  immovable  you 
treat  with  so  quiet  a  scorn,  as  if  they  were  but  the  gossamer 
threads  which  a  touch  of  your  slight  woman's  hand  could  brush 
away.  But  I  cannot  venture  to  discuss  such  subjects  with  you. 
It  is  only  the  skilled  enchanter  who  can  stand  safely  in  the 
magic  circle,  and  compel  the  spirits  that  he  summons,  even  if 
they  are  evil,  to  minister  to  ends  in  which  he  foresees  a  good. 

We  continue  to  live  here  very  quietly,  and  I  do  not  as  yet 
feel  the  worse  for  the  colder  climate.  Indeed,  my  wonderful 
doctor,  who  was  recommended  to  me  as  American,  but  is  in 
reality  English,  assures  me  that  a  single  winter  spent  here  un- 
der his  care  will  suffice  for  my  complete  re-establishment.  Yet 
that  career,  to  the  training  for  which  so  many  years  have  been 
devoted,  does  not  seem  to  me  so  alluring  as  it  once  did. 

I  have  much  to  say  on  this  subject,  which  I  defer  till  I  can 
better  collect  my  own  thoughts  on  it — at  present  they  are  con- 
fused and  struggling.  The  great  Maestro  has  been  most  gra- 
cious. 

In  what  a  radiant  atmosphere  his  genius  lives  and  breathes  ! 
Even  in  his  cynical  moods,  his  very  cynicism  has  in  it  the 
ring  of  a  jocund  music — the  laugh  of  Figaro,  not  of  Mephisto- 
pheles. 

We  went  to  dine  with  him  last  week  ;  he  invited  to  meet  us 

Madame  S ;  who  has  this  year  conquered  all  opposition,  and 

reigns  alone,  the  great  S ;  Mr.  T ,  a  pianist  of  admirable 

promise  ;  your  friend  M.  Savarin,  wit,  critic,  and  poet,  with  his 
pleasant  sensible  wife,  and  a  few  others,  who,  the  Maestro  confided 
to  me  in  a  whisper,  were  authorities  in  the  jDress.     After  dinner 

S sang  to  us,  magnificently,  of  course.     Then  she  herself 

graciously  turned  to  me,  said  how  much  she  had  heard  from 
the  Maestro  in  my  praise,  and  so-and-so.  I  was  persuaded  to 
sing  after  her.  I  need  not  say  to  what  disadvantage.  But  I 
forgot  my  nervousness  ;  I  forgot  my  audience  ;  I  forgot  myself, 
.as  I  always  do  when  once  my  soul,  as  it  were,  finds  wing  in 
music,  and  buoys  itself  in  air,  relieved  from  the  sense  of  earth. 
I  knew  not  that  I  had  succeeded  until  I  came  to  a  close  ;  and 
then,  my  eyes  resting  on  the  face  of  the  grand  prima  donna,  I 
was  seized  with  an  indescribable  sadness — with  a  keen  pang  of 
remorse.  Perfect  artiste  though  she  be,  and  with  powers  in  her 
own  realm  of  art  which  admit  of  no  living  equal,  I  saw  at  once 
that  I  had  pained  her  ;  she   had  grown   almost  livid  ;  her  lips 


48  THE  PARISIAN'S. 

were  quivering,  and  it  was  only  with  a  great  effort  tl:at  she 
muttered  out  some  faint  words  intended  for  applause.  I  com- 
prehended by  an  instinct  how  gradually  there  can  grow  upon 
the  mind  of  an  artist  the  most  generous,  that  jealousy  which 
makes  the  fear  of  a  rival  annihilate  the  delight  in  art.     If  ever 

I  should  achieve  S 's  fame   as   a  singer,  should  I  feel  the 

same  jealousy .''  I  think  not  now,  but  I  have  not  been  tested. 
She  went  away  abruptly.  I  spare  you  the  recital  of  the  com- 
pliments paid  to  me  by  my  other  auditors,  compliments  that 
gave  me  no  pleasure  ;  for  on  all  lips,  except  those  of  the 
Maestro,  they  implied,  as  the  height  of  eulogy,  that  I  had  in- 
flicted torture  upon  S .     "If  so,"  said  he,  "she  would  be 

as  foolish  as  a  rose  that  was  jealous  of  the  whiteness  of  a  lily. 
You  would  do  yourself  great  wrong,  my  child,  if  you  tried  to 
vie  with  the  rose  in  its  own  color." 

He  patted  my  bended  head  as  he  spoke,  with  that  kind  of 
fatherly  king-like  fondness  with  which  he  honors  me  ;  and  I 
took  his  hand  in  mine,  and  kissed  it  gratefully.  "  Neverthe- 
less," said  Savarin,  "  when  the  lily  comes  out  there  will  be  a 
furious  attack  on  it,  made  by  the  clique  that  devotes  itself  to 
the  rose  :  a  lily  clique  will  be  formed  en  revanche,  and  I  foresee 
a  fierce  paper  war.  Do  not  be  frightened  at  its  first  outburst ; 
every  fame  worth  having  must  be  fought  for." 

Is  it  so  ?  have  you  had  to  fight  for  your  fame,  Eulalie  ?  and 
do  you  hate  all  contest  as  much  as  I  do  ? 

Our  only  other  gayety  since  I  last  wrote  was  a  soiree  at  M. 
Louvier's.  That  republican  millionaire  was  not  slow  in  attend- 
ing to  the  kind  letter  you  addressed  to  him  recommending  us 
to  his  civilities.  He  called  at  once,  placed  his  good  offices  at 
our  disposal,  took  charge  of  my  modest  fortune,  which  he  has 
invested  no  doubt,  as  safely  as  it  is  advantageously  in  point  of 
interest,  hired  our  carriage  for  us,  and  in  short  has  been  most 
amiably  useful. 

At  his  house  we  met  many  to  me  most  pleasant,  for  they 
spoke  with  such  genuine  appreciation  of  your  works  and  your- 
self. But  there  were  others  whom  I  should  never  have  ex- 
pected to  meet  under  the  roof  of  a  Croesus  who  has  so  great  a 
stake  in  the  order  of  things  established.  One  young  man — a 
noble  whom  he  specially  presented  to  me,  as  a  politician  who 
would  be  at  the  head  of  affairs  when  the  Red  Republic  was 
established — asked  me  whether  I  did  not  agree  with  him  that 
all  private  property  was  public  spoliation,  and  that  the  great 
enemy  to  civilization  was  religion,  no  matter  in  what  form. 

He  addressed  to   me  these  tremendous   questions  with   an 


THE  PARISIANS.  4g 

effeminate  lisp,  and  harangued  on   them   with  a  small  feeble 
gesticulation  of  pale  dainty  fingers  covered  with  rings. 

I  asked  him  if  there  were  many  in  France  who  shared  his 
ideas. 

"  Quite  enough  to  carry  them  some  day,''  he  answered,  with 
a  lofty  smile.  •'  And  the  day  may  be  nearer  than  the  world 
thinks,  when  my  confreres  will  be  so  numerous  that  they  will 
have  to  shoot  down  each  other  for  the  sake  of  cheese  to  their 
bread." 

That  day  is  nearer  than  the  world  thinks  !  Certainly,  so  far 
as  one  may  judge  the  outward  signs  of  the  world  at  Paris,  it 
does  not  think  of  such  things  at  all.  With  what  an  air  of  self- 
content  the  beautiful  city  parades  her  riches  !  Who  can  gaze 
on  her  splendid  palaces,  her  gorgeous  shops,  and  believe  that 
she  will  give  ear  to  doctrines  that  would  annihilate  private 
rights  of  property  ?  or  who  can  enter  her  crowded  churches, 
and  dream  that  she  can  ever  again  install  a  republic  too  civil- 
ized for  religion .'' 

Adieu.  Excuse  me  for  this  dull  letter.  If  I  have  written 
on  much  that  has  little  interest  even  for  me,  it  is  that  I  wish  to 
distract  my  mind  from  brooding  over  the  question  that  inter- 
ests me  most,  on  which  I  most  need  your  counsel.  I  will  try 
to  approach  it  in  my  next. 

ISAURA. 

Front  the  Same  to  the  Same. 

Eulalie,  Eulalie  ! — what  mocking  spirit  has  been  permitted 
in  this  modern  age  of  ours  to  place  in  the  heart  of  woman  the 
ambition  which  is  the  prerogative  of  men  ? — You  indeed,  so 
richly  endowed  with  a  man's  genius,  have  a  right  to  man's  as- 
pirations. But  what  can  justify  such  ambition  in  me  ?  Noth- 
ing but  this  one  unintellectual  perishable  gift  of  a  voice  that 
does  but  please  in  utter  ng  the  thoughts  of  others.  Doubtless  I 
could  make  a  name  familiar  for  its  brief  time  to  the  talk  of 
Europe — a  name,  what  name  .■'  a  singer's  name.  Once  I  thought 
that  name  a  glory.  Shall  I  ever  forget  the  day  when  you  first 
shone  upon  me  ;  when  emerging  from  childhood  as  from  a  dim 
and  solitary  by-path,  I  stood  forlorn  on  the  great  thoroughfare 
of  life,  and  all  the  prospects  before  me  stretched  sad  in  mists 
and  in  rain  ?  You  beamed  on  me  then  as  the  sun  coming  out 
from  the  cloud  and  changing  the  face  of  the  earth ;  you 
opened  to  my  sight  the  fair}'-land  of  poetry  and  art ;  you  took 
me  by  the  hand  and  said,  "Courage  !  there  is  at  each  step  some 


5° 


THE  PARISIANS. 


green  gap  in  the  hedgerows  some  soft  escape  from  the  stony 
thoroughfare.  Beside  the  real  Hfe  expands  the  ideal  life  to 
those  that  seek  it.  Droop  not,  seek  it  ;  the  ideal  life  has  its 
sorrows,  but  it  never  admits  despair ;  as  on  the  ear  of  him  who 
follows  the  winding  course  of  a  stream,  the  stream  ever  varies 
the  notes  of  its  music,  now  loud  with  the  rush  of  the  falls,  now 
low  and  calm  as  it  glides  by  the  level  marge  of  smooth  banks  ; 
now  sighing  through  the  stir  of  the  reeds,  now  babbling  with  a 
fretful  joy  as  some  sudden  curve  on  the  shore  stays  its  flight 
among  gleaming  pebbles ; — so  to  the  soul  of  the  artist  is  the 
voice  of  the  art  ever  fleeting  beside  and  before  him.  Nature 
gave  thee  the  bird's  gift  of  song — raise  the  gift  into  art  and  make 
the  art  thy  companion. 

"  Art  and  Hope  were  twin-born,  and  they  die  together." 
See  how  faithfully  I  remember,  methinks,  your  very  words. 
But  the  magic  of  the  words,  which  I  then  but  dimly  understood, 
was  in  your  smile  and  in  your  eye,  and  the  queenlike  wave  of 
your  hand  as  if  beckoning  to  the  world  which  lay  before  you, 
visible  and  familiar  as  your  native  land.  And  how  devotedly, 
with  what  earnestness  of  passion,  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  task 
of  raising  my  gift  into  an  art !  I  thought  of  nothing  else, 
dreamed  of  nothing  else  ;  and  oh  how  sweet  to  me  then  were 
words  of  praise  1  "  Another  year  yet,"  at  length  said  the 
masters,  "  and  you  ascend  your  throne  among  the  queens 
of  song."  Then — then — I  would  have  changed  for  no 
other  throne  on  earth  my  hope  of  that  to  be  achieved  in  the 
realms  of  my  art.  And  then  came  that  long  fever  :  my  strength 
broke  down,  and  the  Maestro  said,  "  Rest,  or  your  voice  is 
gone,  and  your  throne  is  lost  forever."  How  hateful  that 
rest  seemed  to  me  !  You  again  came  to  my  aid.  You 
said  "  The  time  you  think  lost  should  be  but  time  improved 
Penetrate  your  mind  with  other  songs  than  the  trash  of  Libretti. 
The  more  you  habituate  yourself  to  the  forms,  the  more  you  im- 
bue yourself  with  the  spirit,  in  which  passions  have  been  ex- 
pressed and  character  delineated  by  great  writers,  the  more 
completely  you  will  accomjilish  yourself  in  your  own  special 
art  of  singer  and  actress."  So,  then,  you  allured  me  to  a  new 
study,  Ah  !  in  so  doing  did  you  dream  that  you  diverted  me 
from  the  old  ambition  1  My  knowledge  of  French  and  Italian, 
and  my  rearing  in  childhood,  which  had  made  English  famiUar 
to  me  gave  me  the  keys  to  the  treasure-houses  of  three  lan- 
guages. Naturally  enough  I  began  with  that  in  which  your 
masterpieces  are  composed.  Till  then  I  had  not  even  read  your 
works.  '^I'hey  were  the  first  I  chose.     How  they  impressed,  how 


THE  PARISIANS.  51 

they  startled  me  !  what  depths  in  the  mind  of  man,  in  the  heart 
of  woman  they  revealed  to  me  !  But  I  owned  to  you  then,  and 
I  repeat  it  now,  neither  they  nor  any  of  the  works  in  romance 
and  poetry  which  form  the  boast  of  recent  French  literature, 
satisfied  yearnings  for  that  calm  sense  of  beauty,  that  divine 
joy  in  the  world  beyond  this  world  which  you  had  led  me  to 
believe  it  was  the  prerogative  of  ideal  art  to  bestow.  And 
when  I  told  you  this  with  the  rude  frankness  you  had  bid  me 
exercise  in  talk  with  you,  a  thoughtful  melancholy  shade  fell 
over  your  face,  and  you  said  quietly,  "You  are  right,  child  ;  we, 
the  French  of  our  time,  are  the  offspring  of  revolutions  that 
settled  nothing,  unsettled  all :  we  resemble  those  troubled  States 
which  rush  into  war  abroad  in  order  to  re-establish  peace  at 
home.  Our  books  suggest  problems  to  men  for  reconstructing 
some  social  system  in  which  the  calm  that  belongs  to  art  may 
be  found  at  last :  but  such  books  should  not  be  in  your  hands  ; 
they  are  not  for  the  innocence  and  youth  of  women,  as  yet  un- 
changed by  the  systems  which  exist."  And  the  next  day  you 
brought  me  Tasso's  great  poem,  the  Gerusalemme  Libcraia,  and 
said  smiling,  "  Art  in  its  calm  is  here." 

You  remember  that  I  was  then  at  Sorrento  by  the  order  of 
my  physician.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  soft  autumn  day  when  I 
sat  among  the  lonely  rocklets  to  the  left  of  the  town — the  sea 
before  me,  with  scarce  a  ripple  ;  my  very  heart  steeped  in  the 
melodies  of  that  poem,  so  marvellous  for  a  strength  disguised 
in  sweetness,  and  for  a  symmetry  in  which  each  proportion 
blends  into  the  other  with  a  perfectness  of  a  Grecian  statue. 
The  whole  place  seemed  to  me  filled  with  the  presence  of  the 
poet  to  whom  it  had  given  birth.  Certainly  the  reading  of  that 
poem  formed  an  era  in  my  existence  ;  to  this  day  I  cannot  ao 
knowledge  the  faults  or  weaknesses  which  your  criticisms 
pointed  out — I  believe  because  they  are  in  unison  with  my  own 
nature,  which  yearns  for  harmony,  and,  finding  that,  rests  con- 
tented. I  shrink  from  violent  contrasts,  and  can  discover  noth 
ing  tame  and  insipid  in  a  continuance  of  sweetness  and  serenity. 
But  it  was  not  till  aftei  I  had  read  Le  Gerusalemme  again  and 
again,  and  then  sat  and  brooded  over  it,  that  I  recognized  the 
main  charm  of  the  poem  in  the  religion  which  clings  to  it  as  the 
perfume  clings  to  a  flower — a  religion  sometimes  melancholy, 
but  never  to  me  sad.  Hope  always  pervades  it.  Surely,  if,  as 
you  said,  "  Hope  is  twin-born  with  art,"  it  is  because  art  at  its 
highest  blends  itself  unconsciously  with  religion,  and  pro- 
claims its  affinity  with  hope  by  its  faith  in  some  future  good 
more  perfect  than  it  has  realized  in  the  past. 


^2  THE  PARISIANS. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  it  was  in  this  poem  so  pre-eminently  Chris- 
tian that  I  found  the  something  which  I  missed  and  craved  for 
in  modern  French  masterpieces,  even  yours — a  something  spir- 
itual, speaking  to  my  own  soul,  calling  it  forth  ;  distinguishing 
it  as  an  essence  apart  from  mere  human  reason  ;  soothing,  even 
when  it  excited  ;  making  earth  nearer  to  heaven.  And  when  1 
ran  on  in  this  strain  to  you  after  my  own  wild  fashion,  you  took 
my  head  between  your  hands  and  kissed  me,  and  said,  "  Happy 
are  those  who  believe  !  long  may  that  happiness  be  thine  !  " 
Why  did  I  not  feel  in  Dante  the  Christian  charm  I  felt  in 
Tasso  ?  Dante  in  your  eyes,  as  in  those  of  most  judges,  is  in- 
finitely the  greater  genius  ;  but  reflected  on-  the  dark  stream  of 
that  genius  the  stars  are  so  troubled,  the  heavens  so  threaten- 


to^ 


mg. 


J  ust  as  my  year  of  holiday  was  expiring,  I  turned  to  Eng- 
lish literature  ;  and  Shakspeare,  of  course,  was  the  first  English 
poet  put  into  my  hands.  It  proves  how  childlike  my  mind  still 
was,  that  my  earliest  sensation  in  reading  him  was  that  of  disap- 
pointment. It  was  not  only  that,  despite  my  familiarity  with 
English  (thanks  chiefly  to  the  care  of  him  whom  I  call  my  sec- 
ond father),  there  is  much  in  the  metaphorical  diction  of  Shak- 
speare which  I  failed  to  comprehend ;  but  he  seemed  to  me  so 
far  like  the  modern  French  writers  who  affect  to  have  found 
inspiration  in  his  muse,  that  he  obtrudes  images  of  pain  and 
suffering  without  cause  or  motive  sufficiently  clear  to  ordinary 
understandings,  as  I  had  taught  myself  to  think  it  ought  to 
be  in  the  drama. 

He  makes  Fate  so  cruel  that  we  lose  sight  of  the  mild  deity 
behind  her.  Compare,  in  this,  Corneille's  "  Polyeiicte"  with  the 
"  Hamlet."  In  the  first  an  equal  calamity  befalls  the  good,  but 
in  their  calamity  they  are  blessed.  The  death  of  the  martyr  is 
the  triumph  of  his  creed.  But  when  we  have  put  down  the  Eng- 
lish tragedy — when  Hamlet  and  Ophelia  are  confounded  in 
death  with  Polonius  and  the  fratricidal  king,  we  see  not  what 
good  end  for  humanity  is  achieved.  The  passages  that  fasten 
en  our  memory  do  not  make  us  happier  and  holier  ;  they  sug- 
gest but  terrible  problems,  to  which  they  give  us  no  solution. 

"  In  the  "  Horaces  "  of  Corneille  there  are  fierce  contests, 
rude  passions,  tears  drawn  from  some  of  the  bitterest  sources  of 
human  pity  ;  but  then  through  all  stands  out,  large  and  visible 
to  the  eyes  of  all  spectators,  the  great  ideal  of  devoted  patriot- 
ism. How  much  of  all  that  has  been  grandest  in  the  life  of 
France,  redeeming  even  its  worst  crimes  of  revolution  in  the 
love  of  countr)',  has  had   its  origin   in  the  "  Horaces  "of  Cor 


THE  PARISIAN'S. 


S3 


neille  !  But  I  doubt  if  the  fates  of  Coriolanus,  and  Caesar,  and 
Brutus,  and  Antony,  in  the  giant  tragedies  of  Shakspeare  have 
made  Englishmen  more  ready  to  die  for  England.  In  fine,  it 
was  long  before — I  will  not  say  I  understood  or  rightly  appre- 
ciated Shakspeare,  for  no  Englishman  would  admit  that  I  o- 
even  you  could  ever  do  so — but  before  I  could  recognize  the 
justice  of  the  place  his  country  claims  for  him  as  the  genius 
without  an  equal  in  the  literature  of  Europe.  Meanwhile  the 
ardor  I  had  put  into  study,  and  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  emo- 
tions which  the  study  called  forth,  made  themselves  felt  in  a 
return  of  my  former  illness,  with  symptoms  still  more  alarming  ; 
and  when  the  year  was  out  I  was  ordained  to  rest  for  perhaps 
another  year  before  I  could  sing  in  public,  still  less  appear  on 
the  stage.  How  I  rejoiced  when  I  heard  that  fiat,  for  I  emerged 
from  that  year  of  study  with  a  heart  utterly  estranged  from  the 

profession  in  which  I  had  centered  my  hopes  before .    Yes, 

Eulalie,  you  had  bid  me  accomplish  myself  for  the  arts  of  utter- 
ance by  the  study  of  arts  in  which  thoughts  originate  the  words 
they  emplo3',and  in  doing  so — I  had  changed  myself  into  another 
being.  I  was  forbidden  all  fatigue  of  mind  ;  my  books  were 
banished,  but  not  the  new  self  which  the  books  had  formed. 
Recovering  slowly  through   the  summer,  I    came   hither   two 

months  since,  ostensibly  for  the  advice  of  Dr.  C ,  but  really 

in  the  desire  to  commune  with  my  own  heart,  and  be  still. 

And  now  I  have  poured  forth  that  heart  to  you — would  you 
persuade  me  still  to  be  a  singer  ?  If  you  do,  remember  at  least 
how  jealous  and  absorbing  the  art  of  the  singer  and  of  the  ac- 
tress is.  How  completely  I  must  surrender  myself  to  it,  and 
live  among  books,  or  among  dreams,  no  more.  Can  I  be  any- 
thing else  but  a  singer  ?  And  if  not,  should  I  be  contented  merely 
to  read  and  to  dream  ? 

I  must  confide  to  you  one  ambition  which  during  the  lazy 
Italian  summer  took  possession  of  me — I  must  tell  you  the 
ambition,  and  add  that  I  have  renounced  it  as  a  vain  one.  I 
had  hoped  that  I  could  compose,  I  mean  in  music.  I  was 
pleased  with  some  things  I  did — they  expressed  in  music  what 
I  could  not  express  in  words ;  and  one  secret  object  in  coming 
here  was  to  submit  them  to  the  great  Maestro.  He  listened  to 
them  patiently  ;  he  complimented  me  upon  my  accuracy  in  the 
mechanical  laws  ot  composition ;  he  even  said  that  my  favorite 
airs  were  totichants  et  gracieiix." 

And  so  he  would  have  left  me,  but  I  stopped  him  timidly, 
and  said,  "  Tell  me  frankly,  do  you  think  that  with  time  and 


24.  THh  PARISIANS. 

study  I  could  compose  music  such  as  singers  equal  to  myself 
could  sing  to  ?  " 

"  You  mean  as  a  professional  composer  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes." 

"  And  to  the  abandonment  of  your  profession  as  a  singer  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  My  dear  child,  I  should  be  your  worst  enemy  if  I  encour- 
aged such  a  notion  ;  cling  to  the  career  in  which  you  can  be 
greatest ;  gain  but  health,  and  I  wager  my  reputation  on  your 
glorious  success  on  the  stage.  What  can  you  be  as  a  composer  ? 
You  will  set  pretty  music  to  pretty  words,  and  it  will  be  sung  in 
drawing-rooms  with  the  fame  a  little  more  or  less  that  generally 
attends  the  compositions  of  female  amateurs.  Aim  at  some- 
thing higher,  as  I  know  you  would  do,  and  you  will  not  succeed. 
Is  there  any  instance  in  modern  times,  perhaps  in  any  times,  of 
a  female  composer  who  attains  even  to  the  eminence  of  a  third- 
rate  opera-writer }  Composition  in  letters  may  be  of  no  sex ; 
in  that  Madame  Dudevant  and  your  friend  Madame  de  Grant- 
mesnil  can  beat  most  men  ;  but  the  genius  of  musical  composi- 
tion is  ho7?ime,  and  accept  it  as  a  compliment  when  I  say  that 
you  are  essentially y^;«w^." 

He  left  me,  of  course,  mortified  and  humbled  ;  but  I  feel  he 
is  right  as  regards  myself,  though  whether  in  his  depreciation 
of  our  whole  sex,  I  cannot  say.  But  as  this  hope  has  left  me, 
I  have  become  more  disquieted,  still  more  restless.  Counsel 
me,  Eulalie  ;  counsel,  and,  if  possible,  comfort  me. 

ISAURA. 

Frovi  the  Same  to  the  Same. 

No  letter  from  you  yet,  and  I  have  left  you  in  peace  for  ten 
days.  How  do  you  think  I  have  spent  them?  The.  Maestro 
called  on  us  with  M.  Savarin,  to  insist  on  our  accompanying 
them  on  a  round  of  the  theatres.  I  had  not  been  to  one  since 
my  arrival.  I  divined  that  the  kind-hearted  composer  had  a 
motive  in  this  invitation.  He  thought  that  in  witnessing  the 
applauses  bestowed  on  actors,  and  sharing  in  the  fascination  in 
which  theatrical  illusion  holds  an  audience,  my  old  passion  for 
the  stage,  and  with  it  the  longing  for  an  artisfe^s  fame,  would 
revive. 

In  my  heart  I  wished  that  his  expectations  might  be  real- 
ized. Well  for  me  if  I  could  once  more  concentre  all  my  aspi- 
rauons  on  a  prize  within  my  reach  ! 

Wo   went  first  to  see  a  comedy  greatly  in  vogue,  and  the 


THE  PARISIANS. 


55 


author  thoroughly  understands  the  French  stage  of  our  day. 
The  acting  was  excellent  in  its  way.  The  next  night  we  went 
to  the  Odeon,  a  romantic  melodrama  in  six  acts,  and  I  know  not 
how  many  tableaux.  I  found  no  fault  with  the  acting  there.  I 
do  not  give  you  the  rest  of  our  programme.     We  visited  all  the 

principal   theatres,    reserving  the  opera    and   Madame   S 

for  the  last.  Before  I  speak  of  the  opera,  let  me  say  a  word  or 
two  on  the  plays. 

There  is  no  country  in  which  the  theatre  has  so  great  a  hold 
on  the  public  as  in  France  ;  no  country  in  which  the  successful 
dramatist  has  so  high  a  fame  ;  no  country,  perhaps,  in  which 
the  state  of  the  stage  so  faithfully  represents  the  moral  and  in- 
tellectual condition  of  the  people.  I  say  this  not,  of  course, 
from  my  experience  of  countries  which  I  have  not  visited,  but 
from  all  I  hear  of  the  stage  in  Germany  and  in  England. 

The  impression  left  on  my  mind  by  the  performances  I  wit- 
nessed is,  that  the  French  people  are  becoming  dwarfed.  The 
comedies  that  please  them  are  but  pleasant  caricatures  of  petty 
sections  in  a  corrupt  society.  They  contain  no  large  types  of 
human  nature  ;  their  witticisms  convey  no  luminous  flashes  of 
truth  ;  their  sentiment  is  not  pure  and  noble — it  is  a  sickly  and 
false  perversion  of  the  impure  and  ignoble  into  travesties  of  the 
pure  and  noble. 

Their  melodramas  cannot  be  classed  as  literature — all  that 
really  remains  of  the  old  French  genius  is  its  vaudeville. 

Great  dramatists  create  great  parts.  One  great  part,  such 
as  a  Rachel  would  gladly  have  accepted,  I  have  not  seen  in  the 
dramas  of  the  young  generation. 

High  art  has  taken  refuge  in  the  opera  ;  but  that  is  not 
French  opera.  I  do  not  complain  so  much  that  French  taste  is 
less  refined.  I  complain  that  French  intellect  is  lowered.  The 
descent  from  Polyeucte  to  Ruy  Bias  is  great,  not  so  much  in 
the  poetry  of  form  as  in  the  elevation  of  thought ;  but  the  de- 
scent from  Ruy  Bias  to  the  best  drama  now  produced  is  out  of 
poetry  altogether,  and  into  those  flats  of  prose  which  give  not 
even  the  glimpse  of  a  mountain-top. 

But  now  to  the  opera.     S ,  in  Norma.     The  house  was 

crowded,  and   its  enthusiasm  as   loud  as  it  was  genuine.     You 

tell  me  that  S never  rivalled  Pasta,  but  certainly  her  Norma 

is  a  great  performance.  Her  voice  has  lost  less  of  its  freshness 
than  I  had  been  told,  and  what  is  lost  of  it  her  practised  man- 
agement conceals  or  carries  off. 

The  Maestro  was  quite  right — I  could  never  vie  with  her  in 
her  own  line  ;  but  conceited  and  vain  as  I  may  seem  even   to 


56 


THE  P ARISTA  MS. 


you  in  saying  so,  I  feel  in  my  own  line  that  I  could  command 
as  large  an  applause,  of  course,  taking  into  account -my  brief- 
lived  advantage  of  youth.  Her  acting,  apart  from  her  voice, 
does  not  please  me.  It  seems  to  me  to  want  intelligence  of  the 
subtler  feelings,  the  under-current  of  emotion,  which  constitutes 
the  chief  beauty  of  the  situation  and  the  character.  Am  I  jeal- 
ous when  I  say  this  ?     Read  on  and  judge. 

On  our  return  that  night,  when  I  had  seen  the  Venosta  to 
bed,  I  went  into  my  own  room,  opened  the  window,  and  looked 
out.  A  lovely  night,  mild  as  in  spring  at  Florence — the  moon 
at  her  full,  and  the  stars  looking  so  calm  and  so  high 
beyond  our  reach  of  their  tranquillity.  The  evergreens  in 
the  gardens  of  the  villas  around  me  silvered  over,  and  the  sum- 
mer boughs,  not  yet  clothed  with  leaves,  were  scarcely  visible 
amid  the  changeless  smile  of  the  laurels.  At  the  distance  lay 
Paris,  only  to  be  known  by  its  innumerable  lights.  And  then 
I  said  to  myself, — 

"  No,  I  cannot  be  an  actress  ;  I  cannot  resign  my  real  self 
for  that  vamped-up  hypocrite  before  the  lamps.  Out  on  those 
stage  robes  and  painted  cheeks  !  Out  on  that  simulated  utter- 
ance of  sentiments,  learned  by  rote  and  practised  before  the 
looking  glass  till  every  gesture  has  its  drill  !  " 

I'hen  I  gazed  on  those  stars  which  provoke  our  questionings 
and  return  no  answer,  till  my  heart  grew  full,  so  full,  and  I 
bowed  my  head  and  wept  like  a  child. 

From  the  Same  to  the  Same. 

And  still  no  letter  from  you  !  I  see  in  the  journals  that  you 
have  left  Nice.  Is  it  that  you  are  too  absorbed  in  your  work 
to  have  leisure  to  write  to  me  ?  1  know  you  are  not  ill ;  for  if 
you  were,  all  Paris  would  know  of  it.  All  Europe  has  an  in^ 
terest  in  your  health.  Positively  I  will  write  to  you  no  more 
till  a  word  from  yourself  bids  me  do  so 

I  fear  I  must  give  up  my  solitary  walks  in  the  Bois  de  Bou- 
logne :  they  were  very  dear  to  me,  partly  because  the  quiet  path 
to  which  I  confined  myself  was  that  to  which  you  directed  me 
as  the  one  you  habitually  selected  when  at  Paris,  and  in  which 
you  had  brooded  over  and  revolved  the  loveliest  of  your  ro- 
mances ;  and  partly  because  it  was  there  that,  catching,  alas ! 
not  inspiration  but  enthusiasm  from  the  genius  that  had  hallow- 
ed the  place,  and  dreaming  I  might  orginate  music  I  nursed  my 
own  aspiration  and  murmured  my  own  airs.  And  though  so 
close  to  that  world  of  Paris  to  which  all  artists  must  appeal   for 


THE  PARISIANS. 


57 


judgment  or  audience,  the  spot  was  so  undisturbed,  so  seques- 
tered. But  of  late  that  path  has  lost  its  solitude,  and  therefore 
its  charm. 

Six  days  ago  the  first  person  I  encountered  in  my  walk  was 
a  man  whom  I  did  not  then  heed.  He  seemed  in  thought,  or 
rather  in  reverie,  like  myself ;  we  passed  each  other  twice  or 
thrice,  and  I  did  not  notice  whether  he  was  young  or  old,  tall 
or  short ;  but  he  came  the  next  day,  and  a  third  day,  and  then 
I  saw  that  he  was  young,  and,  in  so  regarding  him,  his  eyes 
became  fixed  on  mine.  The  fourth  day  he  did  not  come,  but 
two  other  men  came,  and  the  look  of  one  was  inquisitive  and 
offensive.  They  sat  themselves  down  on  a  bench  in  the  walk, 
and,  though  I  did  not  seem  to  notice  them,  I  hastened  home  ; 
and  the  next  day  in  talking  with  our  kind  Madame  Savarin, 
and  alluding  to  these  quiet  walks  of  mine,  she  hinted,  with  the 
delicacy  which  is  her  characteristic,  that  the  customs  of  Paris 
did  not  allow  demoiselles  comme  ilfaut  to  walk  alone  even  in  the 
most  sequestered  paths  of  the  Bois. 

I  began  now  to  comprehend  your  disdain  of  customs  which 
impose  chains  so  idly  galling  on  the  liberty  of  our  sex. 

We  dined  with  the  Savarins  last  evening  :  what  a  joyous 
nature  he  has  !  Not  reading  Latin,  I  only  know  Horace  by  trans- 
lations, which  I  am  told  are  bad  ;  but  Savarin  seems  to  me  a 
sort  of  half  Horace, — Horace  on  his  town-bred  side,  so  playfully 
well-bred,  so  good-humored  in  his  philosophy,  so  affectionate 
to  friends,  and  so  biting  to  foes.  But  certainly  Savarin  could 
not  have  lived  in  a  country  farm  upon  endives  and  mallows. 
He  is  town-bred  and  Parisian,  jusqu'au  bout  des  angles.  How 
he  admires  you,  and  how  I  love  him  for  it !  Only  in  one  thing 
he  disappoints  me  there.  It  is  your  style  that  he  chiefly 
praises  ;  certainly  that  style  is  matchless  ;  but  style  is  only  the 
clothing  of  thought,  and  to  praise  your  style  seems  to  me  almost 
as  invidious  as  the  compliment  to  some  perfect  beauty,  not  on 
her  form  and  face,  but  on  her  taste  in  dress. 

We  met  at  dinner  an  American  and  his  wife — a  Colonel  and 
Mrs.  Morley :  she  is  delicately  handsome,  as  the  American 
women  I  have  seen  generally  are,  and  with  that  frank  vivacity 
of  manner  which  distinguishes  them  from  Englishwomen.  She 
seemed  to  take  a  fancy  to  me,  and  we  soon  grew  very  good 
friends. 

She  is  the  first  advocate  I  have  met,  except  yourself,  of  that 
doctrine  upon  the  Rights  of  Women — of  which  one  reads  more 
in  the  journals  than  one  hears  discussed  in  salons. 

Naturally  enough  I  felt  great  interest  in  that  subject,  more 


58 


THE  PARISIANS. 


especially  since  my  rambles  in  the  Bois  were  forbidden  ;  and  as 
long  as  she  declaimed  on  the  hard  fate  of  the  women  who,  feel- 
ing within  them  powers  that  struggle  for  air  and  light  beyond 
the  close  precincts  of  household  duties,  find  themselves  re- 
stricted from  fair  rivalry  with  men  in  such  fields  of  knowledge 
and  toil  and  glory  as  men  since  the  world  began  have  appro- 
priated to  themselves,  I  need  not  say  that  I  went  with  her  cor- 
dially :  you  can  guess  that  by  my  former  letters.  But  when  she 
entered  into  the  detailed  catalogue  of  our  exact  wrongs  and  our 
exact  rights,  I  felt  all  the  pusillanimity  of  my  sex,  and  shrank 
back  in  terror. 

Her  husband,  joining  us  when  she  was  in  full  tide  of  elo- 
quence, smiled  at  me  with  a  kind  of  saturnine  mirth.  "  Made- 
moiselle, don't  believe  a  word  she  says  ;  it  is  only  tall  talk  !  In 
America  the  women  are  absolute  tyrants,  and  it  is  I, who,  in 
concert  with  my  oppressed  countrymen,  am  going  in  for  a  plat- 
form agitation  to  restore  the  Rights  of  Men." 

Upon  this,  there  was  a  lively  battle  of  words  between  the 
spouses,  in  which,  I  must  own,  I  thought  the  lady  was  decidedly 
worsted. 

No,  Eulalie,  I  see  nothing  in  these  schemes  for  altering  our 
relations  towards  the  other  se^x  which  would  improve  our  condi- 
tion. The  inequalities  we  suft'er  are  not  imposed  by  law — not 
even  by  convention ;  they  are  imposed  by  nature. 

Eulalie,  you  have  had  an  experience  unknown  to  me  ;  you 
have  loved.  In  that  day  did  you — you,  round  whom  poets  and 
sages  and  statesmen  gather,  listening  to  your  words  as  to  an 
oracle — did  you  feel  that  your  pride  of  genius  had  gone  out 
from  you — that  your  ambition  lived  in  him  whom  you  loved — 
that  his  smile  was  more  to  you  than  the  applause  of  a  world  ? 

I  feel  as  if  love  in  a  woman  must  destroy  her  rights  of 
equality — that  it  gives  to  her  a  sovereign  even  in  one  who  would 
be  inferior  to  herself  if  her  love  did  not  glorify  and  crown  him. 
Ah  !  if  I  could  but  merge  this  terrible  egotism  which  oppresses 
me,  into  the  being  of  some  one  who  is  what  I  would  wish  to  be 
were  I  man  !  I  would  not  ask  him  to  achieve  fame.  Enough 
if  I  felt  that  he  was  worthy  of  it,  and  happier  methinks  to  con- 
sole him  when  he  failed  than  to  triumph  with  him  when  he  won. 
Tel.  me,  have  you  felt  this?  When  you  loved  did  you  stoop  as 
to  a  slave,  or  did  you  bow  down  as  to  a  master  ? 

From  Madame  de  Gratimesnil  to  Isaura  Cicogna. 

Chere  enfa?it, — All  your  four  letters  have  reached  me  the 


THE  PAKISTANS. 


59 


same  day.  In  one  of  my  sudden  whims  I  set  off  with  a  few 
friends  on  a  rapid  tour  along  the  Riviera  to  Genoa,  thence  to 
Turin  on  to  MiUin.  Not  knowing  where  we  should  rest  even 
for  a  day,  my  letters  were  not  forwarded. 

I  came  back  to  Nice  yesterday,  consoled  for  all  fatigues  in 
having  insured  that  accuracy  in  description  of  localities  which 
my  work  necessitates. 

"  You  are,  my  poor  child,  in  that  revolutionary  crisis  through 
which  genius  passes  in  youth  before  it  knows  its  own  self,  and 
longs  vaguely  to  do  or  be  a  something  other  than  it  has  done  or 
has  been  before.  For,  not  to  be  unjust  to  your  own  powers, 
genius  you  have — that  inborn,  undefinable  essence,  including 
talent,  and  yet  distinct  from  it.  Genius  you  have,  but  genius 
unconcentrated,  undisciplined.  I  see,  though  you  are  too  diffi- 
dent to  say  so  openly,  that  you  shrink  from  the  fame  of  singer, 
because,  fevered  by  your  reading,  you  would  fain  aspire  to  the 
thorny  crown  o'  author.  I  echo  the  hard  saying  of  the  Maestro, 
I  should  be  your  worst  enemy  did  I  encourage  you  to  forsake  a 
career  in  which  a  dazzling  success  is  so  assured,  for  one  in 
which,  if  it  were  your  true  vocation,  you  would  not  ask  whether 
you  were  fit  for  it ;  you  would  be  impelled  to  it  by  the  terrible 
star  which  presides  over  the  birth  of  poets. 

Have  you,  who  are  so  naturally  observant,  and  of  late  have 
become  so  reflective,  never  remarked  that  authors,  however  ab- 
sorbed in  their  own  craft,  do  not  wish  their  children  to  adopt  it  ? 
The  most  successful  author  is  perhaps  the  last  person  to  whom 
neophytes  should  come  for  encouragement.  This  I  think  is  not 
the  case  with  the  cultivators  of  the  sister  arts.  The  painter, 
the  sculptor,  the  musician,  seem  disposed  to  invite  disciples  and 
welcome  acolytes.  As  for  those  engaged  in  the  practical  affairs 
of  life,  fathers  mostly  wish  their  sons  to  be  as  they  have  been. 

The  politician,  the  lawyer,  the  merchant,  each  says  to  his 
children,  "  Follow  my  steps."  All  parents  in  practical  life 
would  at  least  agree  in  this — they  would  not  wish  their  sons  to 
be  poets.  There  must  be  some  sound  cause  in  the  world's  phi- 
losophy for  this  general  concurrence  of  digression  from  a  road 
of  which  the  travellers  themselves  say  to  those  whom  they  love 
best,  "  Beware  !  " 

Romance  in  youth  is,  if  rightly  understood,  the  happiest  nu- 
triment of  wisdom  in  after-years  ;  but  I  would  never  invite  any 
one  to  look  upon  the  romance  of  youth  as  a  thing 

*  To  case  in  periods  and  embalm  in  ink." 


6o  THE  PARISIANS. 

Enfant,  have  you  need  of  a  publisher  to  create  romance  ? 
Is  it  not  in  yourself  ?  Do  not  imagine  that  genius  requires  for  its 
enjoyment  the  scratch  of  the  pen  and  the  types  of  the  printer. 
Do  not  suppose  that  the  poet,  the  r^^/z^;/(rz>/' is  most  poetic,  most 
romantic,  when  he  is  striving,  struggling,  laboring,  to  check  the 
rush  of  his  ideas,  and  materialize  the  images  which  visit  him  as 
souls  into  such  tangible  likenesses  of  flesh  and  blood  that  the 
highest  compliment  a  reader  can  bestow  on  them  is  to  say  that 
they  are  lifelike  ?  No  :  the  poet's  real  delight  is  not  in  the  me- 
chanism of  composing  ;  the  best  part  of  that  delight  is  in  the 
sym]:)athies  he  has  established  with  innumerable  modifications 
of  life  and  form,  and  art  and  nature — sympathies  which  are  often 
found  equally  keen  in  those  who  have  not  the  same  gift  of  lan- 
guage. The  poet  is  but  the  interpreter.  What  of } — Trutlis  in 
the  hearts  of  others.  He  utters  what-  they  feel.  Is  the  joy  in 
the  utterance  ?  Nay,  it  is  in  the  feeling  itself.  So,  my  dear, 
dark-bright  child  of  song,  when  I  bade  thee  open,  out  of  the 
beaten  thoroughfare,  paths  into  the  meads  and  river-banks  at 
either  side  of  the  formal  hedgerows,  rightly  dost  thou  add  that  I 
enjoined  thee  to  make  thine  art  thy  companion.  In  the  culture  of 
that  art  for  which  you  are  so  eminently  gifted,  you  will  find  the 
ideal  life  ever  beside  the  real.  Are  you  not  ashamed  to  tell  me 
that  in  that  art  you  do  but  utter  the  thoughts  of  others  .'  You 
utter  them  in  music  ;  through  the  music  you  not  only  give  to  the 
thoughts  a  new  character,  but  you  make  them  reproductive  of 
fresh  thoughts  in  your  audience. 

You  said  very  truly  that  you  found  in  composing  you  could 
put  into  music  thoughts  which  you  could  not  put  into  woids. 
That  is  the  peculiar  distinction  of  music.  No  genuine  musi- 
cian can  explain  in  words  exactly  what  he  means  to  convey  in 
his  music. 

How  little  a  libretto  interprets  an  opera — how  little  we  care 
even  to  read  it !  It  is  the  music  that  speaks  to  us  ;  and  how  ? 
— Through  the  human  voice.  We  do  not  notice  how  poor 
are  the  words  which  the  voice  warbles.  It  is  the  voice  itself  in- 
terpreting the  soul  of  the  musician  which  enchains  and  enthralls 
us.  And  you  who  have  that  voice  pretend  to  despise  the  gift. 
What !  despise  the  power  of  communicating  delight ! — the 
power  that  we  authors  envy ;  and  rarely,  if  ever,  can  we  give 
delight  with  so  little  alloy  as  the  singer. 

And  when  an  audience  disperses,  can  you  giiess  what  griefs 
the  singer  may  have  comforted  .''  what  hard  hearts  he  may  have 
softened ;  what  high  thoughts  he  may  have  awakened .'' 


THE  PARISIANS.  6i 

You  say,  "  Out  on  the  vamped-up  hypocrite  !  Out  on  the 
stage-iobes  and  painted  cheeks  !  " 

I  say,  "  Out  on  the  morbid  spirit  which  so  cynically  regards 
the  mere  details  by  which  a  whole  effect  on  the  minds  and 
hearts  and  souls  of  races  and  nations  can  be  produced  !  " 

There,  have  I  scolded  you  sufficiently  ?  I  should  scold 
you  more,  if  I  did  not  see  in  the  affluence  of  your  youth  and 
your  intellect  the  cause  of  your  restlessness. 

Riches  are  always  restless.  It  is  only  to  poverty  that  the  gods 
give  content. 

You  question  me  about  love  :  you  ask  if  I  have  ever  bowed 
to  a  master,  ever  merged  my  life  in  another's  :  expect  no  an- 
swer on  this  from  me,  Circe  herself  could  give  no  answer  to 
the  simplest  maid,  who,  never  having  loved,  asks,  "  What  is 
love  .?  " 

In  the  history  of  the  passions  each  human  heart  is  a  world 
in  itself ;  its  experience  profit  no  others.  In  no  two  lives 
does  love  play  the  same  part  or  bequeath  the  same  record. 

I  know  not  whether  I  am  glad  or  sorry  that  the  word 
"  love"  now  falls  on  my  ear  with  a  sound  as  slight  and  as  faint 
as  the  dropping  of  a  leaf  in  autumn  may  fall  on  thine. 

I  volunteer  but  this  lesson,  the  wisest  I  can  give,  if  thou 
canst  understand  it :  as  I  bade  thee  take  art  into  thy  life,  so 
learn  to  look  on  life  itself  as  an  art.  Thou  couldst  discover 
the  charm  in  Tasso  ;  thou  couldst  perceive  that  the  requisite 
of  all  art,  that  which  pleases,  is  in  the  harmony  of  proportion. 
We  lose  sight  of  beauty  if  we  exaggerate  the  feature  most 
beautiful. 

Love  proportioned  adorns  the  homeliest  existence ;  love 
disproportioned  deforms  the  fairest. 

Alas !  wilt  thou  remember  this  warning  when  the  time 
comes  in  which  it  may  be  needed .'' 

E G. 


6a  THE  PARISIANS 


BOOK  II. 


E— G— . 


CHAPTER  I. 

It  is  several  weeks  after  the  date  of  the  last  chapter ;  the 
lime-trees  in  the  Tuileries  are  clothed  in  green. 

In  a  somewhat  spacious  apartment  on  the  ground-fioor  in 
the  quiet  locality  of  the  Rue  d'Ajou,  a  man  was  seated,  very 
still,  and  evidently  absorbed  in  deep  thought,  before  a  writing- 
table  placed  close  to  the  window. 

Seen  thus,  there  was  an  expression  of  great  power  both  of 
intellect  and  of  character  in  a  face  which,  in  ordinary  social 
commune,  might  rather  be  noticeable  for  an  aspect  of  hardy 
frankness,  suiting  well  with  the  clear-cut,  handsome  profile, 
and  the  rich  dark  auburn  hair,  waving  carelessly  over  one  of 
those  broad  open  foreheads,  which,  according  to  an  old  writer, 
seem  the  "  frontispiece  of  a  temple  dedicated  to  Honor." 

The  forehead,  indeed,  was  the  man's  most  remarkable 
feature.  It  could  not  but  prepossess  the  beholder.  When, 
in  private  theatricals,  he  had  need  to  alter  the  character  of  his 
countenance,  he  did  it  effectually  merely  by  forcing  down  his 
hair  till  it  reached  his  eyebrows.  He  no  longer  then  looked 
like  the  same  man. 

The  person  1  describe  has  been  already  introduced  to  the 
leader  as  Graham  Vane.  But  perhaps  this  is  the  fit  occasion 
to  enter  some  such  details  as  to  his  parentage  and  position  as 
may  make  the  introduction  more  satisfactory  and  complete. 

His  father,  the  representative  of  a  very  ancient  family,  came 
into  possession,  after  a  long  minority,  of  what  may  be  called  a 
fair  squire's  estate,  and  about  half  a  million  in  moneyed  invest- 
ments, inherited  on  the  female  side.  Both  land  and  money 
were  absolutely  at  his  disposal,  unincumbered  by  entail  or 
settlement.  He  was  a  man  of  a  brilliant,  irregular  genius,  of 
princely  generosity,  of  splendid  taste,  of  a  gorgeous  kind  of 
pride  closely  allied  to  a  masculine  kind  of  vanity.     As  soon  as 


THE  rARxSIANS.  ^t^ 

he  WHS  of  age  he  began  to  build,  converthig  his  squire's  hall 
into  a  ducal  palace.  He  then  stood  for  the  county  ;  and  in 
days  before  the  first  Reform  Bill,  when  a  county  election  was 
to  the  estate  of  a  candidate  what  a  long  war  is  to  the  debt  of  a 
nation.  He  won  the  election  ;  he  obtained  early  successes  in 
Parliament.  It  was  said  by  good  authorities  in  political  circles 
that,  if  he  chose,  he  might  aspire  to  lead  his  party,  and  ulti- 
mately to  hold  the  first  rank  in  the  government  of  his  country. 

That  may  or  may  not  be  true ;  but  certainly  he  did  not 
choose  to  take  the  trouble  necessary  for  such  an  ambition.  He 
was  too  fond  of  pleasure,  of  luxury,  of  pomp.  He  kept  a 
famous  stud  of  racers  and  hunters.  He  was  a  munificent 
patron  of  art.  His  establishments,  his  entertainments,  were  on 
a  par  with  those  of  the  great  noble  who  represented  the  loftiest 
(Mr.  Vane  would  not  own  it  to  be  the  eldest)  branch  of  his 
genealogical  tree. 

He  became  indifferent  to  political  contests,  indolent  in  his 
attendance  at  the  House,  speaking  seldom,  nor  at  great  length, 
nor  with  much  preparation,  but  with  power  and  fire,  originality 
and  genius  ;  so  that  he  was  not  only  effective  as  an  orator,  but, 
combining  with  eloquence  advantages  of  birth,  person,  station, 
the  reputation  of  patriotic  independence,  and  genial  attributes 
of  character,  he  was  an  authority  of  weight  in  the  scales  of 
party. 

This  gentleman,  at  the  age  of  forty,  married  the  dowerless 
daughter  of  a  poor  but  distinguished  naval  officer,  of  a  noble 
family,  first  cousin  to  the  Duke  of  Alton. 

He  settled  on  her  a  suitable  jointure,  but  declined  to  tie  up 
any  portion  of  his  property  for  the  benefit  of  children  by  the 
marriage.  He  declared  that  so  much  of  his  fortune  was  in- 
vested either  in  mines,  the  produce  of  which  was  extremely 
fluctuating,  or  in  various  funds,  over  rapid  transfers  in  which  it 
was  his  amusement  and  his  interest  to  have  control,  unchecked 
by  reference  to  trustees,  that  entails  and  settlements  on  chil- 
dren were  an  inconvenience  he  declined  to  incur. 

Besides,  he  held  notions  of  his  own  as  to  the  wisdom  of 
keeping  children  dependent  on  their  father.  "  What  numbers 
of  young  men,"  said  he,  "  are  ruined  in  character  and  in  for- 
tune by  knowing  that  when  their  father  dies  they  are  certain  of 
the  same  provision,  no  matter  how  they  displease  him  ;  and  in 
the  meanwhile  forestalling  that  provision  by  recourse  to  usur- 
ers. These  arguments  might  not  have  prevailed  over  the 
bride's  father  a  year  or  two  later,  when,  by  the  death  of  inter- 
vening kinsmen,  he  became  the  Duke  of  Alton ;  but  in  his  then 


64  THE  PARISIANS. 

circumstances  the  marriage  itself  was  so  much  beyond  the  ex- 
pectations which  the  portionless  daughter  of  a  sea-captain  has 
the  right  to  form,  that  Mr.  Vane  had  it  all  his  own  way,  and  he 
remained  absolute  master  of  his  whole  fortune,  save  of  that 
part  of  his  landed  estate  on  which  his  wife's  jointure  was  set- 
tled ;  and  even  from  this  incumbrance  he  was  very  soon  freed. 
His  wife  died  in  the  second  year  of  marriage,  leaving  an  only 
son — Graham.  He  grieved  for  her  loss  with  all  the  passion  of 
an  im.pressionable,  ardent,  and  powerful  nature.  Then  for  a 
while  he  sought  distraction  to  his  sorrow  by  throwing  himself 
into  public  life  with  a  devoted  energy  he  had  not  previously  dis- 
played. 

His  speeches  served  to  bring  his  party  into  power,  and  he 
yielded,  though  reluctantly,  to  the  unanimous  demand  of  that 
party  that  he  should  accept  one  of  the  highest  offices  in  the 
new  Cabinet.  He  acquitted  himself  well  as  an  administrator 
but  declared,  no  doubt  honestly,  that  he  felt  like  Sinbad  re- 
leased from  the  old  man  on  his  back,  when,  a  year  or  two  after- 
wards, he  went  out  of  office  with  his  party.  No  persuasions 
could  induce  him  to  come  in  again  ;  nor  did  he  ever  again  take 
a  very  active  part  in  debate.  "  No,"  said  he,  "I  was  born  to 
the  freedom  of  a  private  gentlenian — intolerable  to  me  is  the 
thraldom  of  a  public  servant.  But  I  will  bring  up  my  son  so 
that  he  may  acquit  the  debt  which  I  decline  to  pay  to  mv  coun- 
try." There  he  kept  his  word.  Graham  had  been  carefully 
educated  for  public  life,  the  ambition  for  it  dinned  into  his  ear 
from  childhood.  In  his  school-vacations  his  father  made  him 
learn  and  declaim  chosen  specimens  of  masculine  orator}' ;  en- 
gaged an  eminent  actor  to  give  him  lessons  in  elocution  ;  bade 
him  frequent  theatres,  and  study  there  the  effect  which  words 
derive  from  looks  and  gesture  ;  encouraged  him  to  take  part 
himself  in  private  theatricals.  To  all  this  the  boy  lent  his  mind 
with  delight.  He  had  the  orator's  inborn  temperament ;  quick, 
yet  imaginative,  and  loving  the  sport  of  rivalry  and  contest. 
Being  also,  in  his  boyish  years,  good-humored  and  joyous,  he 
was  not  more  a  favorite  with  the  masters  in  the  schoolroom 
than  with  the  boys  in  the  playground.  Leaving  Eton  at  seven- 
teen, he  then  entered  at  Cambridge,  and  became,  in  his  first 
term,  the  most  popular  speaker  at  the  Union. 

But  his  father  cut  short  his  academical  career,  and  decided, 
for  reasons  of  his  own,  to  place  him  at  once  in  diplomacy.  He 
was  attached  to  the  Embassy  at  Paris,  and  partook  of  the 
pleasures  and  dissipations  of  that  metropolis  too  keenly  to  re- 
tain  much  of  the  sterner  ambition  to  which   he   had  befor? 


THE  PARISIANS.  65 

devoted  himself.  Becoming  one  of  the  spoiled  darlings  of 
fashion,  there  was  great  danger  that  his  character  would  relax 
into  the  easy  grace  of  the  Epicurean,  when  all  such  loiterings 
in  the  Rose  Garden  were  brought  to  an  abrupt  close  by  a  rude 
and  terrible  change  in  his  fortunes. 

His  father  was  killed  by  a  fall  from  his  horse  in  hunting ; 
and  when  his  affairs  were  investigated  they  were  found  to  be 
hopelessly  involved — apparently  the  assets  would  not  suffice  for 
the  debts.  The  elder  Vane  himself  was  probably  not  aware  of 
the  extent  of  his  liabilities.  He  had  never  wanted  ready 
money  to  the  last.  He  could  always  obtain  that  from  a  money- 
lender, or  from  the  sale  of  his  funded  investments.  But  it 
became  obvious,  on  examining  his  papers,  that  he  knew  at 
least  how  impaired  would  be  the  heritage  he  should  bequeath 
to  a  son  whom  he  idolized.  For  that  reason  he  had  given 
Graham  a  profession  in  diplomacy,  and  for  that  reason  he  had 
privately  applied  to  the  Ministry  for  the  Vice-royalty  of  India 
in  the  event  of  its  speedy  vacancy.  He  was  eminent  enough 
not  to  anticipate  refusal,  and  with  economy  in  that  lucrative 
post  much  of  his  pecuniary  difficulties  might  have  been  re- 
deemed, and  at  least  an  independent  provision  secured  for  his 
son. 

Graham,  like  Alain  de  Rochebriant,  allowed  no  reproach  on 
his  father's  memory — indeed,  with  more  reason  than  Alain,  for 
the  elder  Vane's  fortune  had  at  least  gone  on  no  mean  and 
frivolous  dissipation. 

It  had  lavished  itself  on  encouragement  to  art — on  great 
objects  of  beneficence — on  public-spirited  aid  of  political  ob- 
jects ;  and  even  in  mere  selfish  enjoyments  there  was  a  certain 
grandeur  in  his  princely  hospitalities,  in  his  munificent  generos- 
ity, in  his  warm-hearted  carelessness  for  money.  No  indulg- 
ence in  petty  folies  or  degrading  vices  aggravated  the  offense 
of  the  magnificent  squanderer. 

"  Let  me  look  on  my  loss  of  fortune  as  a  gain  to  myself," 
said  Graham,  manfully.  "  Had  I  been  a  rich  man,  my  expe- 
rience of  Paris  tells  me  that  I  should  most  likely  have  been  a 
very  idle  one.  Now  that  I  have  no  gold,  I  must  dig  in  myself 
for  iron." 

The  man  to  whom  he  said  this  was  an  uncle-in-law — if  I  may 
use  that  phrase — the  Right  Hon.  Richard  King,  popularly 
styled  "  the  blameless  King." 

This  gentleman  had  married  the  sister  of  Graham's  mother, 
whose  loss  in  his  infancy  and  boyhood  she  had  tenderly  and 
anxiously   sought  to  supply.     It  is  impossible   to  conceive  a 


66  THE  PARISIANS 

woman  more  fitted  to  invite  love  and  reverence  than  was  Lady 
Janet  King,  her  manners  were  so  sweet  and  gentle,  her  whole 
nature  so  elevated  and  pure. 

Her  father  had  succeeded  to  the  dukedom  when  she  mar- 
led Mr.  King,  and  the  alliance  was  not  deemed  quite  suitable. 
Still  it  was  not  one  to  which  the  Duke  would  have  been  fairly 
justified  in  refusing  his  assent. 

Mr.  King  could  not,  indeed,  boast  of  noble  ancestr)',  nor  was 
he  even  a  landed  proprietor  ;  but  he  was  a  not  undistinguished 
member  of  Parliament,  of  irreproachable  character,  and  ample 
fortune  inherited  from  a  distant  kinsman,  who  had  enriched 
himself  as  a  merchant.  It  was  on  both  sides  a  marriage  of 
love. 

It  is  popularly  said  that  a  man  uplifts  a  wife  to  his  own 
rank  ;  it  as  often  happens  that  a  woman  uplifts  her  husband  to 
the  dignity  of  her  own  character.  Richard  King  rose  greatly 
in  public  estimation  after  his  marriage  with  Lady  Janet. 

She  united  to  a  sincere  piety  a  very  active  and  very  en- 
lightened benevolence.  She  guided  his  ambition  aside  from 
mere  party  politics  into  subjects  of  social  and  religious  inter- 
est, and  in  devoting  himself  to  these  he  achieved  a  position 
more  popular  and  more  respected  than  he  could  ever  have  won 
in  the  strife  of  party. 

When  the  Government  of  which  the  elder  Vane  became  a 
leading  Minister  was  formed,  it  was  considered  a  great  object  to 
secure  a  name  so  high  in  the  religous  world,  so  beloved  by  the 
working  classes,  as  that  of  Richard  King  ;  and  he  accepted  one 
of  those  places  which,  though  not  in  the  Cabinet,  confers  the 
rank  of  Privy  Councillor. 

When  that  brief-lived  administration  ceased,  he  felt  the 
same  sensation  of  relief  that  Vane  had  felt,  and  came  to  the 
same  resolution  never  again  to  accept  an  office,  but  for  different 
reasons,  all  of  which  need  not  now  be  detailed.  Among  them, 
however,  certainly  this  : — He  was  exceedingly  sensitive  to 
opinion,  thin-skinned  as  to  abuse,  and  very  tenacious  of  the 
respect  due  to  his  peculiar  character  of  sanctity  and  philan- 
thropy. He  writhed  under  every  newspaper  article  that  made 
'•'the  blameless  King"  responsible  for  the  iniquities  of  the  Gov- 
ernment to  which  he  belonged.  In  the  loss  of  office  he  seemed 
to  recover  his  former  throne. 

Mr.  King  heard  Graham's  resolution  with  a  grave  approving 
smile,  and  his  interest  in  the  young  man  greatly  increased.  He 
devoted  himself  strenuously  to  the  object  of  saving  to  Graham 
some  wrecks  of  his  paternal  fortunes,  and,  having  a  clear  head 


THE  PARISIANS. 


67 


and  great  experience  in  the  transaction  of  business,  he  suc- 
ceeded beyond  the  most  sanguine  expectations  formed  by  the 
family  solicitor.  A  rich  manufacturer  was  found  to  purchase 
at  a  fancy  price  the  bulk  of  the  estate  with  the  palatial  man- 
sion, which  the  estate  alone  could  never  have  sufficed  to  main- 
tain with  suitable  establishments. 

So  that  when  all  debts  were  paid,  Graham  found  himself 
in  possession  of  a  clear  income  of  ^500  a  year,  invested  in  a 
mortgage  secured  on  a  part  of  the  hereditary  lands,  on  which 
was  seated  an  old  hunting  lodge  bought  by  a  brewer. 

With  this  portion  of  the  property  Graham  parted  very  re- 
luctantly. It  was  situated  amid  the  most  picturesque  scenery 
on  the  estate,  and  the  lodge  itself  was  a  remnant  of  the  original 
residence  of  his  ancestors  before  it  had  been  abandoned  for 
that  which,  built  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  had  been  expanded 
into  a  Trentham-like  palace  by  the  last  owner. 

But  Mr.  King's  argument  reconciled  him  to  the  sacrifice. 
"  I  can  manage,"  said  the  prudent  adviser.  "  to  retain  that  rem- 
nant of  hereditary  estate  which  you  are  so  loth  to  part  with. 
But  how  ?  by  mortgaging  to  an  extent  that  will  scarcely  leave 
you  ^50  a  year  net  from  the  rents.  This  is  not  all.  Your  mind 
will  then  be  distracted  from  the  large  object  of  a  career  to  the 
small  one  of  retaining  a  few  family  acres  ;  you  will  be  con- 
stantly hampered  by  private  anxieties  and  fears  :  you  could  do 
nothing  for  the  benefit  of  those  around  you — could  not  repair 
a  farmhouse  for  a  better  class  of  tenant — could  not  rebuild  a 
laborer's  delapidated  cottage.  Give  up  an  idea  that  might  be 
very  welF  for  a  man  whose  sole  ambition  was  to  remain  a  squire 
however  beggarly.  Launch  yourself  into  the  larger  world  of 
metropolitan  life  with  energies  wholly  unshackled,  a  mind 
wholly  undisturbed,  and  secure  of  an  income  which,  however 
modest,  is  equal  to  that  of  most  young  men  who  enter  that 
world  as  your  equal." 

Graham  was  convinced,  and  yielded,  though  with  a  bitter 
pang.  It  is  hard  for  a  man  whose  fathers  have  lived  on  the 
soil  to  give  up  all  trace  of  their  whereabouts.  But  none  saw  in 
him  any  morbid  conciousness  of  change  of  fortune  when  a 
yeai  after  his  father's  death,  he  reassumed  his  place  in  society. 
If  before  courted  for  his  expectations,  he  was  still  courted 
for  himself  ;  by  many  of  the  great  who  loved  his  father,  perhaps 
even  courted  more. 

He  resigned  the  diplomatic  career,  not  merely  because  the 
rise  in  the  profession  is  slow,  and  in  the  intermediate  steps  the 
chances  of  distinction  are  slight  and  few,  but  more  because  he 


68  THE  FAKISTAJVS. 

desired  to  cast  his  lot  in  the  home  country,  and  regarded  the 
courts  of  other  lands  as  exile. 

It  was  not  true,  however,  as  Lemercier  had  stated  on  report, 
that  he  lived  on  his  pen.  Curbing  all  his  old  extravagant  tastes, 
;^5oo  a  year  amply  supplied  his  wants.  But  he  had  by  his 
pen  gained  distinction,  created  great  belief  in  his  abilities  for  a 
public  career.  He  had  written  critical  articles,  read  with  much 
praise,  in  periodicals  of  authority,  and  had  published  one  or  two 
essays  on  political  questions,  which  had  created  yet  more 
sensation.  It  was  only  the  graver  literature,  connected  more 
or  less  with  his  ultimate  object  of  a  public  career,  in  which  he 
had  thus  evinced  his  talents  of  composition.  Such  writings 
were  not  of  a  nature  to  bring  him  much  money,  but  they  gave 
him  a  definite  and  solid  station.  In  the  old  time,  before  the 
first  Reform  Bill,  his  reputation  would  have  secured  him  at  once 
a  seat  in  Parliament ;  but  the  ancient  nurseries  of  statesmen 
are  gone,  and  their  place  is  not  supplied. 

He  had  been  invited,  however,  to  stand  for  more  than  one 
large  and  populous  borough,  with  very  fair  prospects  of  success 
and  whatever  the  expense,  Mr.  King  had  offered  to  defray  it. 
But  Graham  would  not  have  incurred  the  latter  obligation ;  and 
when  he  learned  the  pledges  which  his  supporters  would  have 
exacted,  he  would  not  have  stood  if  success  had  been  certain 
and  the  cost  nothing.  "  I  cannot,"  he  said  to  his  friends,  "  go 
into  the  consideration  of  what  is  best  for  the  country  with  my 
thoughts  manacled  ;  and  I  cannot  be  both  representative  and 
slave  of  the  greatest  ignorance  of  the  greatest  number.  I  bide 
my  time,  and  meanwhile  I  prefer  to  write  as  I  please,  rather 
than  vote  as  I  don't  please." 

Three  years  went  by,  passed  chiefly  in  England,  partly  in 
travel ;  and  at  the  age  of  thirty  Graham  Vane  was  still  one  of 
those  of  whom  admirers  say,  "  He  will  be  a  great  man  some 
dav,"  and  detractors  reply,  "  Some  day  seems  a  long  way 
off> 

The  same  fastidiousness  which  had  operated  against  that  en- 
trance into  Parliament  to  which  his  ambition  not  the  less 
steadily  adapted  itself,  had  kept  him  free  from  the  peiils  of 
wedlock.  In  his  heart  he  yearned  for  love  and  domestic  life, 
but  he  had  hitherto  met  with  no  one  who  realized  the  ideal  he 
had  formed.  With  his  person,  his  accomplishments,  his  con- 
nections, and  his  repute,  he  might  have  made  many  an  advan- 
tageous marriage.  But  somehow  or  other  the  charm  vanished 
from  a  fair  face  if  the  shadow  of  a  money-bag  fell  on  it ;  on  the 
otliQr  hand,  his  ambition  occupied  so  large  a  share  in  his  thoughts 


THE  PARISIANS. 


69 


that  he  would  have  fled  in  tmie  from  the  temptation  of  a  mar- 
riage that  would  have  overweighted  him  beyond  the  chance  of 
rising.  Added  to  all,  he  desired  in  a  wife  an  intellect  that,  if 
not  equal  to  his  own,  could  become  so  by  sympathy — a  union 
of  high  culture  and  noble  aspiration,  and  yet  of  loving  womanly 
sweetness  which  a  man  seldom  finds  out  of  books ;  and  when 
he  does  find  it,  perhaps  it  does  not  wear  the  sort  of  face  that 
he  fancies.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Graham  was  still  unmarried  and 
heart-whole. 

And  now  a  new  change  in  his  life  befell  him.  Lady  Janet 
died  of  a  fever  contracted  in  her  habitual  rounds  of  charity 
among  the  houses  of  the  poor.  She  had  been  to  him  as  the 
most  tender  mother,  and  a  lovelier  soul  than  hers  never  alight- 
ed on  the  earth.  His  grief  was  intense  ;  but  what  was  her 
husband's  i* — one  of  those  griefs  that  kill. 

To  the  side  of  Richard  King  his  Janet  had  been  as  the 
guardian  angel.  His  love  for  her  was  almost  worship  :  with 
her,  every  object  in  a  life  hitherto  so  active  and  useful  seemed 
gone.  He  evinced  no  noisy  passion  of  sorrow.  He  shut  him- 
self up,  and  refused  to  see  even  Graham.  But  after  some 
weeks  had  passed,  he  admitted  the  clergyman  in  whom,  on  spirit- 
ual matters,  he  habitually  confided,  and  seemed  consoled  by 
the  visits  ;  then  he  sent  for  his  lawyer,  and  made  his  will  ;  af- 
ter which  he  allowed  Graham  to  call  on  him  daily,  on  the  con- 
dition that  there  should  be  no  reference  to  his  lost.  He  spoke 
to  the  young  man  on  other  subjects,  rather  drawing  him  out 
about  himself,  sounding  his  opinion  on  various  grave  matters, 
watching  his  face  while  he  questioned,  as  if  seeking  to  dive  in- 
to his  heart,  and  sometimes  pathetically  sinking  into  silence, 
broken  but  by  sighs.  So  it  went  on  for  a  few  more  weeks  ;  then 
he  took  the  advice  of  his  physician  to  seek  change  of  air  and 
scene.  He  went  away  alone,  without  even  a  servant,  not  leav- 
ing word  where  he  had  gone.  After  a  little  while  he  returned, 
more  ailing,  more  broken  than  before.  One  morning  he  was 
found  insensible — stricken  by  paralysis.  He  regained  con- 
sciousness, and  even  for  some  days  rallied  strength.  He  might 
liave  recovered,  but  he  seemed  as  if  he  tacitly  refused  to  live. 
He  expired  at  last,  peacefully,  in  Graham's  arms. 

At  the  opening  of  his  will,  it  was  found  that  he  had  left 
Graham  his  sole  heir  and  executor.  Deducting  Government 
duties,  legacies  to  servants,  and  donations  to  public  charities, 
the  sum  thus  bequeathed  to  his  lost  wife's  nephew  was  two  hun- 
dred and  twenty  thousand  pounds. 

With  such  a  fortune,  opening  indeed  was  made  for  an  ambi- 


7° 


THE  PARISIANS. 


tion  so  long  obstructed.  But  Graham  affected  no  change  \\\ 
his  mode  of  life  :  he  still  retained  his  modest  bachelor's  apart- 
ments— engaged  no  servants — bought  no  horses — in  no  way  ex- 
ceeded the  income  he  had  possessed  before.  He  seemed,  in- 
deed, depressed  rather  than  elated  by  the  succession  to  a  wealth 
which  he  had  never  anticipated. 

Two  children  had  been  born  from  the  marriage  of  Richard 
King;  they  had  died  young,  it  is  true,  but  Lady  Janet  at  the 
time  of  her  own  decease  was  not  too  advanced  in  years  for  tlie 
reasonable  expectation  of  other  offspring ;  and  even  after 
Richard  King  became  a  widower  he  had  given  to  Graham  no 
hint  of  his  testamentary  dispositions.  The  young  man  was  no 
blood-relation  to  him,  and  naturally  supposed  that  such  relations 
would  become  the  heirs.  But  in  truth  the  deceased  seemed 
to  have  no  near  relations  :  none  had  ever  been  known  to  visit 
him — none  raised  a  voice  to  question  the  justice  of  his  will. 

Lady  Janet  had  been  buried  at  Kensal  Green ;  her  husband's 
remains  were  placed  in  the  same  vault. 

For  days  and  days  Graham  went  his  way  lonelily  to  the 
cemetery.  He  might  be  seen  standing  motionless  by  that 
tomb,  with  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks  ;  yet  his  was  not  a 
weak  nature — not  one  of  those  that  love  indulgence  of  irre- 
mediable grief.  On  the  contrary,  people  who  did  not  know 
him  well  said  that  "  he  had  more  head  than  heart,"  and  the 
character  of  his  pursuits,  as  of  his  writings,  was  certainly  not 
that  of  a  sentimentalist.  He  had  not  thus  visited  the  tomb  till 
Richard  King  had  been  placed  within  it.  Yet  his  love  for  his 
aunt  was  unspeakably  greater  than  that  which  he  could  have 
felt  for  her  husband.  Was  it,  then,  the  husband  that  he  so 
much  more  acutely  mourned  ?  or  was  there  something  that, 
since  the  husband's  death,  had  deepened  1  is  reverence  for  the 
memory  of  her  whom  he  had  nor  only  loved  as  a  mother,  but 
honored  as  a  saint  ? 

These  visits  to  the  cemetery  did  not  cease  till  Graham  was 
confined  to  his  bed  by  a  very  grave  illness — the  only  one  he 
had  ever  known.  His  physician  said  it  was  nervous  fever,  and 
occasioned  by  moral  shock  or  excitement  ;  it  was  attended  with 
delirium.  His  recovery  was  slow,  and  when  it  was  sufficiently 
completed  he  quitted  England  ;  and  we  find  him  now,  with  his 
mind  composed,  his  strength  restored,  and  his  spirits  braced, 
in  that  gay  city  of  Paris,  hiding,  jDerhaps,  some  earnest  purpose 
amidst  his  participation  in  its  holiday  enjoyments. 

He  is  now,  as  I  have  said,  seated  before  his  writing-table  in 


THE  PARISIANS. 


71 


deep   thought.     He  takes   up   a  letter  which  he   had  already 
glanced  over  hastily,  and  reperuses  it  with  more  care. 

The  letter  is  from  his  cousin,  the  Duke  of  Alton,  who  had 
succeeded  a  few  years  since  to  the  family  honors — an  able  man, 
with  no  small  degree  of  information,  an  ardent  politician,  but  of 
very  rational  and  temperate  opinions  ;  too  much  occupied  by 
the  cares  of  a  princely  estate  to  covet  ofhce  for  himself  ;  too 
sincere  a  patriot  not  to  desire  office  for  those  to  whose  hands 
he  thought  the  country  might  be  most  safely  intrusted — an  inti- 
mate friend  of  Graham's.  The  contents  of  the  letter  are 
these  : — 

My  dear  Graham, — I  trust  that  you  will  welcome  the  bril- 
liant opening  into  public  life  which  these  lines  are  intended  to 
announce  to  you.  Vavasour  has  just  been  with  me  to  say  that 
he  intends  to  resign  his  seat  for  the  county  when  Parliament 
meets,  and  agreeing  with  me  that  there  is  no  one  so  lit  to  suc- 
ceed him  as  yourself,  he  suggests  the  keeping  his  intention  se- 
cret until  you  have  arranged  your  committee  and  are  prepared 
to  take  the  field.  You  cannot  hope  to  escape  a  contest ;  but  I 
have  examined  the  Register,  and  the  party  has  gained  rather 
than  lost  since  the  last  election,  when  Vavasour  was  so  trium- 
phantly returned. 

The  expenses  for  this  county,  where  there  are  so  many  out- 
voters to  bring  up,  and  so  many  agents  to  retain,  are  always 
.arge  in  comparison  with  some  other  counties  ;  but  that  consid- 
eration is  all  in  your  favor,  for  it  deters  Squire  Hunston,  the 
only  man  who  could  beat  you,  from  starting;  and  to  your  re- 
sources a  thousand  pounds  more  or  less  are  a  tritie  not  worth  dis- 
cussing. You  know  how  difficult  it  is  nowadays  to  find  a  seat 
for  a  man  of  moderate  opinions  like  yours  and  mine.  Our 
county  would  exactly  suit  you.  The  constituency  is  so  evenly 
divided  between  the  urban  and  rural  populations,  that  its  repre- 
sentative must  fairly  consult  the  interests  of  both.  He  can  be 
neither  an  ultra-Tory  nor  a  violent  Radical.  He  is  left  to  the 
enviable  freedom,  to  which  you  say  you  aspire,  of  considering 
what  is  best  for  the  country  as  a  whole. 

Do  not  lose  so  rare  an  opportunity.  There  is  but  one 
drawback  to  your  triumphant  candidature.  It  will  be  said  thai 
you  have  no  longer  an  acre  in  the  county  in  which  the  Vanes 
have  been  settled  so  long.  That  drawback  can  be  removed. 
It  is  true  that  you  can  never  hope  to  buy  back  the  estates  which 
you  were  compelled  to  sell  at  your  father's  death — the  old  man- 
ufacturer gripes  them  too  firmly  to  loosen  his  hold  ;  and,  after 
all,  even  were  your  income  double  what  it  is,  you  would  be 


72 


THE  PAKISIAXS. 


overhoused  in  the  vast  pile  in  which  your  father  buried  so  large 
a  share  of  his  fortune.  But  that  beautiful  old  hunting  lodge, 
the  Stamvi  Schloss  of  your  family,  with  the  adjacent  farms,  can 
be  now  repurchased  very  reasonably.  The  brewer  who  bought 
them  is  afflicted  with   an   extravagant  son,  whom  he  placed  in 

the Hussars,  and  will  gladly  sell  the  property  for  ;^5ooo 

more  than  he  gave  :  well  worth  the  difference,  as  he  has  im- 
proved the  farm-buildings  and  raised  the  rental.  I  think,  in 
addition  to  the  sum  you  have  on  mortgage,  ^^23,000  will  be  ac- 
cepted, and  as  a  mere  investment  pay  you  nearly  three  percent. 
But  to  you  it  is  v^^orth  more  than  double  the  money  ;  it  once  niore 
identifies  your  ancient  name  with  the  county.  You  would  be  a 
greater  personage  with  that  moderate  holding  in  the  district  in 
which  your  race  took  root,  and  on  which  your  father's  genius 
threw  such  a  lustre,  than  you  would  be,  if  you  invested  all  your 
wealth  in  a  county  in  which  every  squire  and  farmer  would  call 
you  "  the  new  man."  Pray  think  over  this  most  seriously,  and 
instruct  your  solicitor  to  open  negotiations  with  the  brewer  at 
once.  But  rather  put  yourself  into  the  train,  and  come  back  to 
England  straight  to  me.  I  will  ask  Vavasour  to  meet  you. 
What  news  from  Paris  ?  Is  the  Emperor  as  ill  as  the  papers 
insinuate  ?     And  is  the  revolutionary  party  gaining  ground  .-* 

Your  affectionate  cousin, 

Alton. 

As  he  put  down  this  letter,  Graham  heaved  a  short  impa- 
tient sigh. 

"  The  old  Stanim  Schloss,^'  he  muttered — "  a  foot  on  the  old 
soil  once  more  !  and  an  entrance  into  the  great  arena  with 
hands  unfettered.     Is  it  possible  ? — is  it — is  it  ?  " 

At  this  moment  the  door-bell  of  the  apartment  rang,  and  a 
servant  whom  Graham  had  hired  at  Paris  as  a  laquais  de  place, 
announced  "  Ce  Monsieur." 

Graham  hurried  the  letter  into  his  portfolio,  and  said,  "  You 
mean  the  person  to  whom  I  am  always  at  home  ?  " 

"The  same,  Monsieur." 

"  Admit  him,  of  course." 

There  entered  a  wonderfully  thin  man,  middle-aged,  clothed 
m  black,  his  face  cleanly  shaven,  his  hair  cut  very  short,  with 
one  of  those  faces  which,  to  use  a  French  expression,  "  say 
nothing."  It  was  absolutely  without  expression — it  had  not 
even,  despite  its  thinness,  one  salient  feature..  If  you  had 
found  yourself  anywhere  seated  next  to  that  man,  your  eye 
would  have  passed  him  o\'er  as  too  insigniticanl  to  notice  ;  if  at 


THE  PARISIANS.  73 

a  cafe,  you  would  have  gone  on  talking  to  your  friend  without 
lowering  your  voice  :  what  mattered  it  whether  a  bete  like  that 
overheard  or  not  ?  Had  you  been  asked  to  guess  his  calling 
and  station,  you  might  have  said,  minutely  observing  the  fresh- 
ness of  his  clothes  and  the  undeniable  respectability  of  his  tout 
ensemble,  "  He  must  be  well  off,  and  with  no  care  for  customers 
on  his  mind — a  ci  devafit  chandler  who  has  retired  on  a  legacy.'' 

Graham  rose  at  the  entrance  of  his  visitor,  motioned  him 
courteously  to  a  seat  beside  him,  and,  waiting  till  the  laquais  had 
vanished,  then  asked,  "  What  news  ?  " 

"  None,  I  fear,  that  will  satisfv  Monsieur.  I  have  certainly 
hunted  out,  since  I  had  last  the  honor  to  see  you,  no  less  than 
four  ladies  of  the  name  of  Duval,  but  only  one  of  them  took 
that  name  from  her  parents,  and  was  also  christened  Louise." 

"  Ah— Louise  !  " 

"  Yes,  the  daughter  of  a  perfumer,  aged  twenty-eight.  She, 
therefore  is  not  the  Louise  you  seek.  Permit  me  to  refer  to 
your  instruction."  Here  M.  Renard  took  out  a  note-book, 
turned  over  the  leaves,  and  resumed  :  "  Wanted,  Louise  Duval, 
daughter  of  Auguste  Duval,  a  French  drawing-master,  who  lived 
for  many  years  at  Tours,  removed   to  Paris   in  1845,  lived    at 

No.  12   Ruede   S at  Paris  for  some  years,  but  afterwards 

moved  to  a  different  quartier  of  the  town,    and  died,    1848,    in 

Rue  L ,  No.  39.      Shortly   after  his  death,   his   daughter 

Louise  left  that  lodging,  and  could  not  be  traced.  Li  1849 
official  documents  reporting  her  death  were  forwarded  from 
Munich  to  a  person  (a  friend  of  yours,  Monsieur).  Death,  of  course, 
taken  for  granted  ;  but  nearly  five  years  afterwards  this  very 
person  encountered  the  said  Louise  Duval  at  Aix-la-Chapelle, 
and  never  heard  nor  saw  more  of  her.  Deinande  submitted,  to 
find  out  said  Louise  Duval  or  any  children  of  hers  born  in 
1848 — 9 ;  supposed  in  1852 — 3  to  have  one  child,  a  girl 
between  four  and  five  years  old.     Is  that  right.  Monsieur  1" 

"  Quite  right." 

"  And  this  is  the  whole  information  given  to  me.  Monsieur 
im  giving  it  asked  me  if  I  thought  it  desirable  that  he  should 
commence  inquiries  at  Aix-la-Chapelle,  where  Louise  Duval 
was  last  seen  by  the  person  interested  to  discover  her.  I  reply, 
No  ;  pains  thrown  away.  Aix-la-Chapelle  is  not  a  place  where 
any  Frenchwoman  not  settled  there  by  marriage  would  remain. 
Nor  does  it  seem  probable  that  the  said  Duval  would  venture 
to  select  for  her  residence  Munich,  a  city  in  which  she  had 
contrived  to  obtain  certificates  of  her  death.  A  Frenchwoman 
who  has  once    known  Paris    always   wants  to   get  back   to  it 


y^  THE  PARISIANS. 

especially,  Monsieur,  if  she  has  the  beauty  which  you  assign  to 
this  lady.     I  therefore  suggested  that  our  inquiries  should  com 
mence  'in  this   capital.     Monsieur  agreed  with  me,  and  I  did 
not  grudge  the  time  necessary  for  investigation." 

"  You  were  most  obliging.     Still,  I  am  beginning  to  be  im 
patient  if  time  is  to  be  thrown  away." 

"  Naturally.  Permit  me  to  return  to  my  notes.  Monsieur 
informs  me  that  twenty-one  years  ago,  in  1848,  th(;  Parisian 
police  were  instructed  to  find  out  this  lady,  and  failed,  but  gave 
hopes  of  discovering  her  through  her  relations.  He  asks  me 
to  refer  to  our  archives  ;  I  tell  him  that  is  no  use.  However, 
in  order  to  oblige  him,  I  do  so.  No  trace  of  such  inquiry — it 
must  have  been,  as  Monsieur  led  me  to  suppose,  a  strictly 
private  one,  unconnected  with  crime  or  with  politics  ;  and,  as 
I  have  the  honor  to  tell  Monsieur,  no  record  of  such  investiga- 
tions is  preserved  in  the  Rue  Jerusalem.  Great  scandal  would 
there  be,  and  injury  to  the  peace  of  families,  if  we  preserved 
the  results  of  private  inquiries  intrusted  to  us — by  absurdly 
jealous  husbands,  for  instance.  Honor,  Monsieur,  honor  for- 
bids it.  Next  I  suggest  to  Monsieur  that  his  simplest  plan 
would  be  an  advertisement  in  the  French  journals,  stating,  if  I 
understand  him  right,  that  it  is  for  the  pecuniary  interest  of 
Madame  or  Mademoiselle  Duval,  daughter  of  Auguste  Duval, 
artiste  en  dessin,  to  come  forward.     Monsieur  objects  to  that." 

"  I  object  to  it  extremely.  As  I  have  told  you,  this  is  a 
strictly  confidential  inquiry,  and  an  advertisement,  which  in  all 
likelihood  would  be  practically  useless  (it  proved  to  be  so  in  a 
former  inquiry),  would  not  be  resorted  to  unless  all  else  failed, 
and  even  then  with  reluctance." 

"  Quite  so.  Accordingly,  Monsieur  delegates  to  me,  who 
have  been  recommended  to  him  as  the  best  person  he  can 
employ  in  that  department  of  our  police  which  is  not  connected 
with  crime  or  political  surveillance,  a  task  the  most  difficult.  I 
have,  through  strictly  private  investigations,  to  discover  the 
address  and  prove  the  identity  of  a  lady  bearing  a  name  among 
the  most  common  in  France,  and  of  whom  nothing  has  been 
heard  for  fifteen  years,  and  then  at  so  migratory  an  endroit  as 
Aix-la-Chapelle.  You  will  not  or  cannot  inform  me  if  since 
that  time  the  lady  has  changed  her  name  by  marriage." 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  think  that  she  has  ;  and  there  are 
reasons  against  the  supposition  that  she  married  after  1849." 

"  Permit  me  to  observe  that  the  more  details  of  information 
Monsieur  can  give  me,  the  easier  my  task  of  research  will  be." 

"  I  have  given  you  all  the    details  I  can,   and,  aware    of  the 


THE  PARISIANS. 


75 


difficulty  of  tracing  a  person  with  a  name  so  much  the  revetse 
of  singular,  I  adopted  your  advice  in  our  first  interview,  of 
asking  some  Parisian  friend  of  mine,  with  a  large  acquaintance 
in  the  miscellaneous  societies  of  your  capital,  to  inform  me  of 
any  ladies  of  that  name  whom  he  might  chance  to  encounter; 
and  he,  like  you,  has  lighted  upon  one  or  two  who,  alas  ! 
resemble  the  right  one  in  name,  and  nothing  more." 

"  You  will  do  wisely  to  keep  him  on  the  watch  as  well  as 
myself.  If  it  were  but  a  murderess  or  a  political  incendiary, 
then  you  might  trust  exclusively  to  the  enlightenment  of  our 
corps  ;  but  this  seems  an  affair  of  sentiment,  Monsieur.  Senti- 
ment is  not  in  our  way.  Seek  the  trace  of  that  in  the  haunts 
of  pleasure." 

M.  Renard,  having  thus  poetically  delivered  himself  of  that 
philosophical  dogma,  rose  to  depart. 

Graham  slipped  into  his  hand  a  bank-note  of  sufKicienl 
value  to  justify  the  profound  bow  he  received  in  return. 

When  M.  Renard  had  gone,  Graham  heaved  another  im- 
patient sigh,  and  said  to  himself,  "  No,  it  is  not  possible — at 
least  not  yet." 

Then,  compressing  his  lips  as  a  man  who  forces  himself  to 
something  he  dislikes,  he  dipped  his  pen  into  the  inkstand,  and 
wrote  rapidly  thus  to  his  kinsman  : — 

My  dear  Cousin, — I  lose  not  a  post  in  replying  to  your 
kind  and  considerate  letter.  It  is  not  in  my  power  at  present  to 
return  to  England.  I  need  not  say  how  fondly  I  cherisii  the 
hope  of  representing  the  dear  old  county  some  day.  If 
Vavasour  could  be  induced  to  defer  his  resignation  of  the  seat 
for  another  session,  or  at  least  for  six  or  seven  months,  why, 
then  I  might  be  free  to  avail  myself  of  the  opening  ;  at  present 
I  am  not.  Meanwhile,  I  am  sorely  tempted  to  buy  back  the 
old  Lodge — probably  the  brewer  would  allow  me  to  leave  on 
mortgage  the  sum  I  myself  have  on  the  property,  and  a  few 
additional  thousands.  I  have  reasons  for  not  wishing  to 
transfer  at  present  much  of  the  money  now  invested  in  the 
funds.  I  will  consider  this  point,  which  probably  does  not 
press. 

I  reserve  all  Paris  news  till  my  next ;  and,   begging  you  to 
forgive  so  curt  and  unsatisfactory  a  reply  to  a  letter  so  impor- 
tant that  it  excites  me  more  than  I  like  to  own,  believe  me, 
Your  affectionate  friend  and  cousin, 

Graham. 


y6  THE  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER   II. 

At  about  the  same  hour  on  the  same  clay  in  which  the 
Englishman  held  the  conference  with  the  Parisian  detective 
just  related,  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant  found  himself  by 
appointment  in  the  cabinet  d  affaires  of  his  avoue,  M.  Gandrin  : 
that  gentleman  had  hitherto  not  found  time  to  give  him  a 
definitive  opinion  as  to  the  case  submitted  to  his  judgment. 
The  avoue,  received  Alain  with  a  kind  of  forced  civility  in  which 
the  natural  intelligence  of  the  Marquis,  despite  his  inexperience 
of  life,  discovered  embarrassment. 

"  Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  siad  Gandrin,  fidgeting  among  the 
papers  on  his  bureau,"  this  is  a  very  complicated  business.  I 
have  given  not  only  my  best  attention  to  it  but"  to  your  general 
interests.  To  be  plain,  your  estate,  though  a  fine  one,  is  fear- 
fully encumbered — fearfully — frightfully." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  Marquis,  haughtily,"  that  is  a  fact  which 
was  never  disguised  from  you." 

"  I  do  not  say  that  it  was.  Marquis  ;  but  I  scarcely  real- 
ized the  amount  of  the  liabilities  nor  the  nature  of  the  property. 
It  will  be  difficult — nay,  I  fear,  impossible — to  find  any  cai> 
italist  to  advance  a  sum  that  will  cover  the  mortgages  at  an  in- 
terest less  than  you  now  pay.  As  for  a  Company  to  take  the 
whole  trouble  off  your  hands,  clear  off  the  mortgages,  manage 
the  forests,  develop  the  fisheries,  guarantee  you  an  adequate 
income,  and  at  the  end  of  twenty-one  years  or  so  render  up  to 
your  heirs  free  enjoyment  of  an  estate  thus  improved,  we  must 
dismiss  that  prospect  as  a  wild  dream  of  my  good  friend  M 
Hebert's.  People  in  the  provinces  do  dream  ;  in  Paris  every- 
body is  wide  awake." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  Marquis,  with  that  inborn  impertur- 
bable loftiness  of  sang  froid  which  has  always  in  adverse 
circumstances  characterized  the  French  noblesse,  "  be  kind 
enough  to  restore  my  papers.  I  see  that  you  are  not  the  man 
for  me.  Allow  me  only  to  thank  you,  and  inquire  the  amount 
of  my  debt  for  the  trouble  I  have  given." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  quite  justified  in  thinking  I  am  not  the 
man  for  you,  Monsieur  le  Marquis  ;  and  your  papers  shall,  if 
you  decide  on  dismissing  me,  be  returned  to  you  this  evening 


THE  PARISIANS.  77 

But  as  to  my  accepting  remuneration  where  I  have  rendered  no 
service,  I  request  M.  le  Marquis  to  put  that  out  of  the  question. 
Considering  myself,  then,  no  longer  your  avoue,  do  not  think  I 
take  too  great  a  liberty  in  volunteering  my  counsel  as  a  friend — or 
a  friend  at  least  to  M.  Hebert  if  you  do  not  vouchsafe  my  right 
so  to  address  yourself." 

M.  Gandrin  spoke  with  a  certain  diginty  of  voice  and  manner 
which  touched  and  softened  his  listener. 

"  You  make  me  your  debtor  for  more  than  I  pretend  to 
repay,"  replied  Alain.  "  Heaven  knows  I  want  a  frieiid  ;  and 
1  will  heed  with  gratitude  and  respect  all  your  counsels  in  that 
character." 

"  Plainly  and  briefly,  my  advice  is  this  :  Monsieur  Louvier 
is  the  principal  mortgagee.  He  is  among  the  richest  ne- 
gotiators of  Paris.  He  does  not,  therefore,  want  money  ;  but, 
like  most  self-make  men,  he  is  very  accessible  to  social  vani- 
ties. He  would  be  proud  to  think  he  had  rendered  a  service 
to  a  Rochebriant.  Approach  him,  either  through  me,  or,  far 
better,  at  once  introduce  yourself,  and  propose  to  consolidate 
all  your  other  liabilities  in  one  mortgage  to  him,  at  a  rate  of 
interest  lower  than  that  which  is  now  paid  to  some  of  the  small 
mortgagees.  This  would  add  considerably  to  your  income, 
and  would  carry  out  M.  He'bert's  advice." 

"  But  does  it  not  strike  you,  dear  M.  Gandrin,  that  such 
going  cap  in  hand  to  one,  who  has  power  over  my  fate,  while 
I  have  none  over  his,  would  scarcely  be  consistent  with  my 
self-respect,  not  as  Rochebriant  only,  but  as  a  Frenchman  ?  " 

"  It  does  not  strike  me  so  in  the  least ;  at  all  events,  I  could 
make  the  proposal  on  your  behalf,  without  compromising  your- 
self, though  I  should  be  far  more  sanguine  of  success  if  you 
addressed  M.  Louvier  in  person." 

"  I  should  nevertheless  prefer  leaving  it  in  your  hands  ;  but 
even  for  that  I  must  take  a  few  days  to  consider.  Of  all  the 
mortgagees  M.  Louvier  has  been  hitherto  the  severest  and 
most  menacing,  the  one  whom  Hebert  dreads  the  most ;  and 
should  he  become  sole  mortgagee  my  whole  estate  would  pass 
to  him  if  through  any  succession  of  bad  seasons  and  faili:/g 
tenants  the  interest  was  not  punctually  paid." 

,"  It  could  so  pass  to  him  now." 

"  No  ;  for  there  have  been  years  in  which  the  other  mort- 
gagees, who  are  Bretons  and  would  be  loath  to  ruin  a  Roche- 
briant, have  been  lenient  and  patient." 

"  If  Louvier  has  not  been  equally  so,  it  is  only  because  he 
knew  nothing  of  you,  and  your  father  no  doubt  had  often  sorely 


78  THE  PARISIANS. 

tasked  his  endurance.  Come,  suppose  we  manage  to  break  the 
ice  easily.  Do  me  the  honor  to  dine  here  to  meet  him ;  you 
will  find  that  he  is  not  an  unpleasant  man." 

The  Marquis  hestitated,  but  the  thought  of  the  sharp  and 
seemingly  hopeless  struggle  for  the  retention  of  his  ancestral 
home  to  which  he  would  be  doomed  if  he  returned  from  Pari? 
unsuccessful  in  his  errand  overmastered  his  pride.  He  felt  as 
it  that  self-conquest  was  a  duty  he  owed  to  the  very  tombs  of 
his  fathers.  "  I  ought  not  to  shrink  from  the  face  of  a  credi- 
tor," said  he,  smiling  somewhat  sadly,  "  and  I  accept  the  pro- 
posal you  so  graciously  make." 

"  You  do  well.  Marquis,  and  I  will  write  at  once  to  Louvier 
to  ask  him  to  give  me  his  first  disengaged  day." 

The  Marquis  had  no  sooner  quitted  the  house  than  M. 
Gandrin  opened  a  door  at  the  side  of  his  office,  and  a  large 
portly  man  strode  into  the  room — stride  it  was  rather  than  step 
— firm,  self-assured,  arrogant,  masterful. 

"  Well,  7non  ami"  said  this  man,  taking  his  stand  at  the 
hearth,  as  a  king  might  take  his  stand  in  the  hall  of  his  vassal, 
"  and  what  says  our  petit  muscadin  ?  " 

"He  is  neither  petit  noi  fniiscadin,  Monsieur  Louvier,"  re- 
plied Gandrin,  peevishly ;  "  and  he  will  task  your  powers  to 
get  him  thoroughly  into  your  net.  But  I  have  persuaded  him 
to  meet  you  here.  What  day  can  you  dine  with  me  ?  I  had 
better  ask  no  one  else." 

"  To-morrow  I  dine  with   my   friend    O ,  to   meet   the 

chiefs  of  the  Opposition,"  said  Monsieur  Louvier,  with  a  sort 
of  careless  rollicking  pomposity.  "  Thursday  with  Pereira — 
Saturday  I  entertain  at  home.     Say  Friday.     Your  hour  t  " 

"  Seven." 

"  Good  !  Show  me  those  Rochebriant  papers  again  ;  there 
is  something  I  had  forgotten  to  note.  Never  mind  me.  Go  on 
with  your  work  as  if  I  were  not  here." 

Louvier  took  up  the  papers,  seated  himself  in  an  arm-chair 
by  the  fireplace,  stretched  out  his  legs,  and  read  at  his  ease, 
l)ut  with  a  very  rapid  eye,  as  a  practised  lawyer  skims  through 
iJie  technical  forms  of  a  case  to  fasten  upon  the  marrow  of 
it. 

"  Ah !  as  I  thought.  The  farms  could  not  pay  even  the  in- 
terest on  my  present  mortgage  ;  the  forests  come  in  for  that.  If 
a  contractor  for  the  yearly  sale  of  the  woods  was  bankrupt  and 
did  not  pay,  how  could  I  get  my  interest?  Answer  me  that, 
Gandrin." 

"  Certainly  you  must  run  the  risk  of  that  chance." 


THE  PARISIANS.  -  79 

"  Of  course  the  chance  occurs,  and  then  I  foreclose* — 1 
seize, — Rochebriant  and  its  seigneuries  are  mine." 

As  he  spoke  he  laughed,  not  sardonically — a  jovial  laugh 
— and  opened  wide,  to  reshut  as  in  a  vice,  the  strong  iron  hand 
which  had  doubtless  closed  over  many  a  man's  all. 

"  Thanks.     On   Friday,  seven  o'clock."  He  tossed  the   pa 
pers  back  on  the  bureau,  nodded  a  royal  nod,  and  strode  forth 
imperiously  as  he  had  strided  in. 


CHAPTER  in. 


Meanwhile  the  young  Marquis  pursued  his  way  thought- 
fully through  the  street,  and  entered  the  Champs  _  Elysees. 
Since  we  first,  nay,  since  we  last  saw  him,  he  is  strikingly  im- 
proved in  outward  appearances.  He  has  unconsciously  acquired 
more  of  the  easy  grace  of  the  Parisian  in  gait  and  bearing. 
You  would  no  longer  detect  the  provincial — perhaps,  however, 
because  he  is  now  dressed,  though  very  simply,  in  habiliments 
that  belong  to  the  style  of  the  day.  Rarely  among  the  loungers 
in  the  Champs  Elyse'es  could  be  seen  a  finer  form,  a  comelier 
face,  an  air  of  more  unmistakable  distinction. 

The  eyes  of  many  a  passing  fair  one  gazed  on  him  admir- 
ingly or  coquettishly.  But  he  was  still  so  little  the  true  Paris- 
ian that  they  got  no  smile,  no  look  in  return.  He  was  wrapt  m 
his  own  thoughts ;  was  he  thinking  of  M.  Louvier  ? 

He  had  nearly  gained  the  entrance  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne, 
when  he  was  accosted  by  a  voice  behind,  and,  turning  round 
saw  his  friend  Lemercier  arm  in  arm  with  Graham  Vane. 

"  Bonjoiir,  Alain,"  said  Lemercier,  hooking  his  disengaged 
arm  into  Rochebriant's.  "  I  suspect  we  are  going  the  same 
way." 

Alain  felt  himself  change  countenance  at  this  conjecture, 
and  replied  coldly,  "  I  think  not ;  I  have  got  to  the  end  of  my 
walk,  and  shall  turn  back  to  Paris."  Addressing  himself  to 
the  Englishman,  he  said,  with  formal  politeness,  "  I  regret  not 
to  have  found  you  at  home  when  I  called  some  weeks  ago,  and 

*  For  the  sake  of  the  general  reader,  English  technical  words  are  hero 
as  elsewhere,  substituted  as  much  asposiblefor  Fieuch. 


8o  •  THE  PARISIANS. 

no  less  so,  to  have  been  out  when  you  had  the  complaisance  to 
return  my  visit." 

"  At  all  events,"  replied  the  Englishman,  "  let  me  not  lose 
the  opportunity  of  improving  our  acquaintance  which  now 
offers.  It  is  true  that  our  friend  Lemercier,  catching  sight  ot 
me  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  stopped  his  cotipe  and  carried  me  off 
for  a  promenade  in  the  Bois.  The  fineness  of  the  day  tempted 
us  to  get  out  of  his  carriage  as  the  Bois  came  in  sight.  But  J 
you  are  going  back  to  Paris  I  relinquish  the  Bois  and  offer  my- 
self as  your  companion." 

Frederic  (the  name  is  so  familiarly  English  that  the  reader 
might  think  me  pedantic  did  I  accentuate  it  as  French)  looked 
from  one  to  the  other  of  his  two  friends,  half  amused  and  half 
angry. 

"  And  am  I  to  be  left  alone  to  achieve  a  conquest  in  which, 
if  I  succeed,  I  shall  charge  into  hate  and  envy  the  affection  of 
my  two  best  friends  ! — Be  it  so. 

'  Un  veritable  amant  ne  connait  point  d'amis.'" 

"  I  do  not  comprehend  your  meaning,"  said  the  Marquis, 
with  a  compressed  lip  and  a  slight  frown. 

"  Bah  1"  cried  Frederic/  '■' qoxvlQ.  frajic jeu — cards  on  the 
table — M.  Grarm.  Varn  was  going  into  the  Bois  at  my  'iugges- 
tion  on  the  chance  of  having  another  look  at  the  pearl-colored 
angel ;  and  you,  Rochebriant,  can't  deny  that  you  were  going 
into  the  Bois  for  the  same  object." 

"  One  may  pardon  an  enfant  terribk?'  said  the  Englishman, 
laughing,  "  but  an  ami  terrible  should  be  sent  to  the  galleys. 
Come,  Marquis,  let  us  walk  back  and  submit  to  our  fate, 
Flven  were  the  lady  once  more  visible,  we  have  no  chance  of 
being  observed  by  the  side  of  a  Lovelace  so  accomiDlished  and 
so  audacious." 

"  Adieu,  then,  recreant — I  go  alone.     Victory  or  death.' 

The  Parisian  beckoned  his  coachman,  entered  his  carriage, 
and  with  a  mocking  grimace  kissed  his  hand  to  the  companions 
thus  deserting  or  deserted. 

Rochebriant  touched  the  Englishman's  arm,  and  said,  "  Do 
you  think  that  Lemercier  could  be  impertinent  enough  to  accost 
that  lady  ?  " 

"  In  the  first  place,"  returned  the  Englishman,  "  Lemercier 
himself  tells  me  that  the  lady  hasfor  several  weeks  relinquished 
her  walk's  in  the  Bois,  and  the  probability  is,  theretore,  that  he 
will  not  have  the  opportunity  to  accost  her.     In  the  next  place, 


THE  PARISIAN-^.  8 1 

it  appears  that  when  she  did  take  her  soUtary  walk  she  did  not 
stray  far  from  her  carriage,  and  was  in  reach  of  the  protection 
of  her  laquais  and  coachman.  But  to  speak  honestly,  do  you, 
who  know  Lemercier  better  than  I,  take  him  to  be  a  man  who 
would  commit  an  impertinence  to  a  woman  unless  there  were 
viveurs  of  his  own  sex  to  see  him  do  it  ?  " 

Alain  smiled.  "  No.  Frederic's  real  nature  is  an  admir- 
able one,  and  if  he  ever  do  anything  that  he  ought  to  be  a- 
shamed  of,'twill  be  from  the  pride  of  showmg  how  finely  he  can  do 
it.  Such  was  his  character  at  college,  and  such  it  still  seems  at 
Paris.  But  it  is  true  that  the  lady  has  forsaken  her  former  walk  • 
at  least  I — I  have  not  seen  her  since  the  day  I  first  beheld  her 
in  company  with  Frederic.  Yet — yet,  pardon  me,  you  were 
going  to  the  Bois  on  the  chance  of  seeing  her.  Perhaps  she 
has  changed  the  direction  of  her  walk,  and — and — " 

The  Marquis  stopped  short,  stammering  and  confused. 

The  Englishman  scanned  his  countenance  with  the  rapid 
glance  of  a  practised  observer  of  men  and  things  and  after  a 
short  pause  said,  "If  the  lady  has  selected  some  other  spo'.  for 
her  promenade,  I  am  ignorant  of  it ;  nor  have  I  even  volunteered 
the  chance  of  meeting  with  her  since  I  learned — first  from 
Lemercier,  and  afterwards  from  others — that  her  destination  is 
the  stage.  Let  us  talk  frankly.  Marquis.  I  am  accustomed  to 
take  much  exercise  on  foot,  and  the  Bois  is  my  favorite  resort ; 
one  day  I  there  found  myself  in  the  allee  which  the  lady  we 
speak  of  used  to  select  for  her  promenade,  and  there  saw  her. 
Something  in  her  face  impressed  me  ;  how  shall  I  describe  the 
impression  ?  Did  you  ever  open  a  poem,  a  romance,  in  some 
style  wholly  new  to  you,  and  before  you  were  quite  certain 
whether  or  not  its  merits  justified  the  interest  which  the  novelty 
mspired,  you  were  summoned  away,  or  the  book  was  taken  out 
of  your  hands .''  If  so,  did  you  not  feel  an  intellectual  longing  to 
have  another  glimpse  of  the  book  .''  That  illustration  describe d 
my  impression,  and  I  own  that  I  twice  again  went  to  the  same 
allee  .The  last  time,  I  only  caught  sight  of  the  young  lady  as  she 
was  getting  into  her  carriage.  As  she  was  then  borne  awa}',  I 
perceived  one  of  the  custodians  of  the  Bois,  and  learned,  on 
questioning  him,  that  the  lady  was  in  the  habit  of  walking  always 
alone  in  the  same  allee  at  the  same  hour  on  most  fine  days,  but 
he  did  not  know  her  name  or  address.  A  motive  of  curiosity — 
perhaps  an  idle  one — then  made  me  ask  Lemercier,  who  boasts 
of  knowing  his  Paris  so  intimately,  if  he  could  inform  me  who 
the  lady  was.     He  undertook  to  ascertain." 

"  But,"  interposed  the  Marquis,  "  he  did  not  ascertain  who 


52  THE  PARISIANS. 

%he  was  ;  he  only  ascerfained  where  she  lived,  and  that  she  and 
an  elder  companion  were  Italians, — wliom  he  suspected, 
without  sufficient  ground  to  be  professional  singers. 

"  True  ;  but  since  then  I  ascertained  more  detailed  particu- 
lars from  two  acquaintances  of  mine  who  happen  to  know  her 
— M.  Savarin,  the  distinguished  writer,  and  Mrs.  Morley,  an 
accomplished  and  beautiful  American  lady,  who  is  more  than 
an  acquaintance  :  I  may  boast  the  honor  of  ranking  among  her 
friends.  As  Savarin's  villa  is  at  A  — ,  I  asked  him  incidentally 
if  he  knew  the  fair  neighbor  whose  face  had  so  attracted  me  ; 
and  Mrs.  Morley  being  present,  and  overhearing  me,  I  learned 
from  both  what  I  now  repeat  to  you. 

"  The  young  lady  is  a  Signorina  Cicogna — at  Paris 
exchanging  (except  among  particular  friends),  as  is  not 
unusual,  the  outlandish  designation  of  Signorina  for  the  more 
conventional  one  of  Mademoiselle.  Her  father  was  a  membet 
of  the  noble  Milanese  family  of  the  same  name :  therefore  the 
young  lady  is  well  born.  Her  father  has  been  long  dead  ;  his 
widow  married  again  an  English  gentleman  settled  in  Italy, 
a  scholar  and  antiquarian  ;  his  name  was  Selby.  This  gentle- 
man, also  dead,  beqiieaihed  the  Signorina  a  small  but  sufiticient 
competence.  She  is  now  an  orphan,  and  residing  with  a  com- 
panion, a  Stgnora  Venosta,  who  was  once  a  singer  of  some  re- 
pute at  the  Neapolitan  Theatre,  in  the  orchestra  of  which  her 
husband  was  principal  peformer  ;  but  she  relinquished  the  stage 
several  years  ago  on  becoming  a  widow,  and  gave  lessons  as  a 
teacher.  She  has  the  character  of  being  a  scientific  musician, 
and  of  unblemished  private  respectability.  Subsequently  she 
was  induced  to  give  up  general  teaching,  and  undertake  the 
musical  education  and  the  social  charge  of  the  young  lady  with 
her.  This  girl  is  said  to  have  early  given  promise  of  extraordi- 
nary excellence  as  a  signer,  and  excited  great  interest  among  a 
coterie  of  literary  critics  and  musical  cognoscenti.  She  was  to 
have  come  out  at  the  Theatre  of  Milan  a  year  or  two  ago,  but 
her  career  has  been  suspended  in  consequence  of  ill  health, 
for  which  she  is  now  at  Paris  under  the  care  of  an  English 
physician  who  has  made  remarkable  cures  in  all  complaints  of 

the  respiratory  organs.     M ,  the  great  composer,  who  knows 

her,  says  that  in  expression  and  feeling  she  has  no  living  su- 
perior, perhaps  no  equal  since  Malibran." 

"  You  seem,  dear    Monsieur,  to  have  taken  much  pains    to 
acquire  this  information." 

"  No  great   pains   were   necessary ;  but   had  they  been  I 
might  have  taken  them,  for,  as  I  have  owned  to  you,  Alademoi 


THE  PARISIANS.  83 

selle  Cicogna,  while  she  was  yet  a  mystery  to  me,  strangely 
interested  my  thoughts  or  my  fancies.  That  interest  has  now 
ceased.  The  world  of  actresses  and  singers  Ues  apart  from 
mine," 

"  Yet,"  said  Alain,  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  implied  doubt, 
"  'f  I  understand  Lemercier  aright,  you  were  going  with  him  to 
the  Eois  on  the  chance  of  seeing  again  the  lady  in  whom  your 
interest  has  ceased." 

"  Lemercier's  account  was  not  strictly  accurate.  He  stop- 
ped his  carriage  to  speak  to  me  on  quite  another  subject  on 
which  I  have  consulted  him,  and  then  proposed  to  take  me  on 
to  the  Bois.  I  assented  ;  and  it  was  not  till  we  were  in  the 
carriage  that  he  suggested  the  idea  of  seeing  whether  the  pearly- 
robed  lady  had  resumed  her  walk  in  the  allee.  You  may  judge 
how  indifferent  1  was  to  that  chance  when  I  preferred  turning 
back  with  you  to  going  on  with  him.  Between  you  and  me,  Mar- 
quis, to  men  of  our  age,  who  have  the  business  of  life  before 
them,  and  feel  that  if  there  be  aught  in  which  noblesse  oblige  it 
is  a  severe  devotion  to  noble  objects,  there  is  nothing  more 
fatal  to  such  devotion  than  allowing  the  heart  to  be  blown 
hither  and  thither  at  every  breeze  of  mere  fancy,  and  dreaming 
ourselves  into  love  with  some  fair  creature  whom  we  never 
could  marry  consistently  with  the  career  we  have  set  before  our 
ambition.  I  could  not  marry  an  actress — neither,  I  presume, 
could  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant ;  and  the  thought  of  a  court- 
ship, which  excluded  the  idea  of  marriage,  to  a  young  orphan 
of  name  unblemished — of  virtue  unsuspected — would  certainly 
not  be  compatible  with  'devotion  to  noble  objects.'  " 

Alain  involuntarily  bowed  his  head  in  assent  to  the  propo- 
sition, and,  it  may  be,  in  submission  to  an  implied  rebuke.  The 
two  men  walked  in  silence  for  some  minutes,  and  Graham  first 
spoke,  changing  altogether  the  subject  of  conversation. 

"  Lemercier  tells  me  you  decline  going  much  into  this  world 
of  Paris — the  capital  of  capitals — which  appears  so  irresistibly 
attractive  to  us  foreigners," 

"  Possibly  ;  but,  to  borrow  your  words,  I  have  the  business 
o:  life  before  me." 

"  Business  is  a  good  safeguard  against  the  temptations  to 
excess  in  pleasure,  in  which  Paris  abounds.  But  there  is  no 
business  which  does  not  admit  of  some  holiday,  and  all  busi- 
ness necessitates  commerce  with  mankind.  A  propos,  I  was 
the  other  evening  at  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon's — a  brilliant 
assembly,  filled  with  ministers,  senators,  and  courtiers.  I  heard 
your  name  mentioned." 


54 


THE  PARISIANS. 


"Mine?" 

"  Yes ;  Duplessis,  the  rising  financier — who,  ralher  to  my 
surprise,  was  not  only  present  among  these  official  and  decora- 
ted celebrities,  but  apparently  quite  at  home  among  them— 
asked  the  Duchesse  if  she  had  not  seen  you  since  your  arrival  at 
Paris.  She  replied,  '  No ;  that  though  you  were  among  her 
nearest  connections,  you  had  not  called  on  her  ; '  and  bade 
Duplessis  to  tell  you  that  you  were  a  moiistrc  for  not  doing  so. 
Whether  or  not  Duplessis  will  take  that  liberty,  I  know  not ; 
but  you  must  pardon  me  if  I  do.  She  is  a  very  charming 
woman,  full  of  talent ;  and  that  stream  of  the  world  which  re- 
flects the  stars,  with  all  their  mythical  intiuences  on  fortune, 
iiows  through  her  salonsT 

"  I  am  not  born  under  those  stars.     I  am  a  Legitimist." 

"  I  did  not  forget  your  political  creed  ;  but  in  England  the 
leaders  of  opposition  attend  the  salons  of  the  Prime  Minister. 
A  man  is  not  supposed  to  compromise  his  opinions  because  he 
exchanges  social  courtesies  with  those  to  whom  his  opinions 
are  hostile.  Pray  excuse  nie  if  I  am  indiscreet, — I  speak  as  a 
traveller  who  asks  for  information, — but  do  the  Legitimists 
really  believe  that  they  best  serve  their  cause  by  declining  any 
mode  of  competing  with  its  opponents  ?  Would  there  not  be  a 
fairer  chance  for  the  ultimate  victory  of  their  principles  if  they 
made  iheir  talents  and  energies  individually  prominent — if  they 
were  known  as  skilful  generals,  practical  statesmen,  eminent 
diplomatists,  brilliant  writers  ?  Could  they  combine,  not  to 
sulk  and  exclude  themselves  from  the  great  battle-field  of  the 
world — but  in  their  several  ways  to  render  themselves  of  such 
use  to  their  country  that  some  day  or  other,  in  one  of  those 
revolutionary  crises  to  which  France,  alas  !  must  long  be  sub- 
jected, they  would  find  themselves  able  to  turn  the  scale  of 
undecided  counsels  and  conflicting  jealousies." 

"  Monsieur,  we  hope  for  the  day  when  the  Divine  Disposer 
of  events  will  strike  into  the  hearts  of  our  fickle  and  errin2: 
countrymen  the  conviction  that  there  will  be  no  settled  repose 
for  P'rance  save  under  the  sceptre  of  her  rightful  kings.  But 
meanwhile  we  are — I  see  it  more  clearly  since  I  have  quitted 
Bretagne — we  are  a  hopeless  minority." 

"  Does  not  history  tell  us  that  the  great  changes  of  the 
world  have  been  wrought  by  minorities  .-' — but  on  the  one  con- 
dition that  the  minorities  shall  not  be  hopeless.''  It  is  almost 
the  other  day  that  the  Bonajiartists  were  in  a  minority  that 
their  adversaries  called  hopeless;  and  the  majority  for  the 
Kmpcror  is  now  so  preponclerant   that  I  tremble  for  his  safety, 


THE  PARISIANS.  g^ 

Wlien  a  majority  becomes  so  vast  that  intellect  disappears  in 
the  crowd,  the  dat,e  of  its  destruction  commences  ;  for  by  the 
law  of  reaction  the  minority  is  installed  against  it.  It  is  the 
nature  of  things  that  minorities  are  always  more  intellectual 
than  multitudes,  and  intellect  is  ever  at  work  in  sapping 
numerical  force.  What  your  party  wants  is  hope  ;  because  with- 
out hope  there  is  no  energy,  I  remember  hearing  my  fathei 
say  that  when  he  met  the  Count  de  Chambord  at  Ems  that 
illustrious  personage  delivered  himself  of  a  belle  phrase  much 
admired  by  his  partisans.  The  Emperor  was  then  President  of 
the  Republic,  in  a  very  doubtful  and  dangerous  position. 
France  seemed  on  the  verge  of  another  convulsion.  A  certain 
distinguished  politician  recommended  the  Count  de  Chambord 
to  hold  himself  ready  to  enter  at  once  as  a  candidate  for  the 
throne.  And  the  Count,  with  a  benignant  smile  on  his  hand- 
some face,  answered,  '  All  wrecks  come  to  the  shore — the  shore 
does  not  go  to  the  wrecks.'  " 

"  Beautifully  said  !  "  exclaimed  the  Marquis. 

"  Not  if  Le  beau  est  toujours  le  vrai.  My  father,  no  inexperi- 
enced or  unwise  politician,  in  repeating  the  royal  words,  re- 
marked, '  The  fallacy  of  the  Count's  argument  is  in  its 
metaphor.*  A  man  is  not  a  shore.  Do  you  not  think  that  the 
seamen  on  board  the  wrecks  would  be  more  grateful  to  him 
who  did  not  complacently  compare  himself  to  a  shore,  but  con- 
sidered himself  a  human  being  like  themselves,  and  risked  his 
own  life  in  a  boat,  even  though  it  were  a  cockle-shell,  in  the 
chance  of  saving  theirs  ?  " 

Alain  de  Rochebriant  was  a  brave  man,  with  that  intense 
sentiment  of  patriotism  which  characterizes  Frenchmen  of 
every  rank  and  persuasion,  unless  they  belong  to  the  Inter- 
nationalists ;  and  without  pausing  to  consider,  he  cried,  "  Your 
father  was  right." 

The  Englishman  resumed  :  "  Need  I  say,  my  dear  Marquis, 
that  I  am  not  a  Legitimist .''  I  am  not  an  Imperialist,  neither 
am  I  an  Orleanist  nor  a  Republican.  Between  all  those  politi- 
cal divisions  it  is  for  Frenchmen  to  make  their  choice,  and  for 
Englishmen  to  accept  for  France  that  government  which  France 
has  established.  I  view  things  here  as  a  simple  observer.  But 
it  strikes  me  that  if  I  were  a  Frenchman  in  your  position  I 
should  think  myself  unworthy  my  ancestors  if  I  consented  to  be 
an  insignificant  looker-on." 

"  You  are  not  in  my  position,"  said  the  Marquis,  half 
mournfully,  half  haughtily,  "  and  you  can  scarely  judge  of  it 
even  in  imagination." 


S6  THE  PARISIANS. 

"  I  need  not  much  task  my  imagination  ;  I  judge  of  it  by 
analogy.  I  was  very  much  in  your  position  when  I  entered 
upon  what  I  venture  to  call  my  career  ;  and  it  is  the  :urious 
similarity  between  us  in  circumstances  that  made  me  wish  for 
your  friendship  when  that  similarity  was  made  known  to  me  by 
Lcmercier,  who  is  not  less  garrulous  than  the  true  Parisian 
usually  is.  Permit  me  to  say  that,  like  you,  I  was  reared  in 
some  pride  of  no  inglorious  ancestry.  I  was  reared  also  in  the 
expectation  of  great  wealth.  Those  expectations  were  not  re- 
alized :  my  father  had  the  fault  of  noble  natures — generosity 
pushed  to  imprudence  :  he  died  poor,  and  in  debt.  You  retain 
the  home  of  your  ancestors  ;  I  had  to  resign  mine." 

The  Marquis  had  felt  deeply  interested  in  this  narrative, 
and  as  Graham  now  paused,  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it. 

"  One  of  our  most  eminent  personages  said  to  me  about 
that  time,  '  Whatever  a  clever  man  of  your  age  determines  to 
do  or  to  be,  the  odds  are  twenty  to  one  that  he  has  only  to  live 
on  in  order  to  do  or  to  be  it.'  Don't  you  think  he  spoke  truly  } 
I  think  so." 

"  I  scarcely  know  what  to  think,"  said  Rcchebriant ;  "  I 
feel  as  if  you  had  given  me  so  rough  a  shake  when  I  was  in  the 
midst  of  a  dull  dream,  that  I  do  not  yet  know^  wlrether  I  am 
asleep  or  awake." 

Just  as  he  said  this,  and  towards  the  Paris  end  of  the 
Champs  Elysees,  there  was  a  halt,  a  sensation  among  the 
loungers  round  them  :  many  of  them  uncovered  in  salute. 

A  man  on  the  younger  side  of  middle  age,  somewhat  in- 
clined to  corpulence,  with  a  very  striking  countenance,  wa? 
riding  slowly  by.  He  returned  the  salutations  he  received 
with  the  careless  dignity  of  a  personage  accustomed  to  respect, 
and  then  reined  in  his  horse  by  the  side  of  a  barouche  and  ex- 
changed some  words  witli  a  portly  gentleman  who  was  its  sole 
occupant.  The  loungers,  still  halting,  seemed  to  contemplate 
this  parley  between  him  on  horseback  and  him  in  the  carriage 
with  very  eager  interest.  Some  put  their  hands  behind  their 
ears  and  pressed  forward,  as  if  trying  to  overhear  what  was 
said. 

"I  wonder,"  quoth  Graham,  "whether,  with  all  his  clever- 
ness, the  Prince  has  in  any  way  decided  what  he  means  to  do 
or  to  be." 

"  The  Prince  !  "  said  Rochebriant,  rousing  himself  from 
reverie  ;  "  what  Prince  ?  " 

"  Do  you  not  recognize  him  by  his  wonderful  likeness  to  the 


THE  PARISIANS. 


87 


first  Napoleon — him  on  horseback  talking  to  Louvier,  the  great 
financier  ?■ " 

"  Is  that  stout  bourgeois  in  the  carriage  Louvier  ?  " 

"Your  mortgagee,  my  dear  Marquis?  Well,  he  is  lich 
enough  to  be  a  very  lenient  one  upon  pay-day." 

"  Heifi  I — I  doubt  his  leniency,"  said  Alain.  "  I  have  ptoni- 
ised  my  avoue  to  meet  him  at  dinner.  Do  you  think  I  did 
wrong  t  " 

•'  Wrong !  of  course  not ;  he  is  likely  to  overwhelm  you  with 
civilities.  Pray  don't  refuse  if  he  gives  you  an  invitation  to 
his  soiree  next  Saturday — I  am  going  to  it.  One  meets  there 
the  notabilities  most  interesting  to  study — artists,  authors,  poli- 
ticians, especially  those  who  call  themselves  Republicans.  He 
and  the  Prince  agree  in  one  thing — viz,  the  cordial  reception 
they  give  to  the  men  who  would  destroy  the  state  of  things 
upon  which  Prince  and  financier  both  thrive.  Hillo  !  here 
comes  Lemercier  on  return  from  the  Bois." 

Lemercier's  eouJ>e  stopped  beside  the  footpath.  "  What  ti- 
dings of  the  J?e//e  Inconnue  1 "  asked  the  Englishman. 

•'  None  ;  she  was  not  there.  But  I  am  rewarded — such  an 
adventure — a  dame  of  the  /laufe  volee — I  believe  she  is  a  duchess. 
She  was  walking  with  a  lap-dog,  a  pure  Pomeranian.  A  strange 
poodle  flew  at  the  Pomeranian.  I  drove  off  the  poodle,  rescued 
the  Pomeranian,  received  the  most  gracious  thanks,  the  sweetest 
smile  :  feinnie  superbe,  middle-aged.  I  prefer  women  of  forty. 
Alt  revoir ;  I  am  due  at  the  club." 

Alain  felt  a  sensation  of  relief  that  Lemercier  had  not  seen 
the  lady  in  tlie  pearl-colored  dress,  and  quitted  the  Englishman 
with  a  lightened  heart. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

^'Piaola,  piccola,  com''  e  cortese  !  another  invitation  from  M. 
Louvier  for  next  Saturday — conversazione^  This  was  said  in 
Italian  by  an  elderly  lady  bursting  noisily  into  the  room — eld- 
erly, yet  with  a  youthful  expression  of  face,  owing  perhaps  to  a 
pair  of  very  vivacious  black  eyes.  She  was  dressed  after  a 
somewhat  slatternly  fashion,  in  a  wrapper  of  crimson  merino 
much  the  worse  for  wear,  a  blue  handkerchief  twisted  turban- 
like round  her  head,  and  her  feet  encased  in  list  slippers.    The 


gg  THE  PARISIANS. 

person  to  whom  she  addressed  herself  was  a  young  lady  with 
dark  liair,  which,  despite  its  evident  redundance,  was  restrained 
into  smooth  glossy  braids  over  the  forehead,  and  at  the  crown 
of  the  small  graceful  head  into  the  simple  knot  which  Horace 
has  described  as  "  Spartan."  Her  dress  contrasted  the  speaker's 
by  an  exquisite  neatness.  We  have  seen  her  before  as  the  lady 
•n  the  pearl-colored  robe,  but  seen  now  at  home  she  looks  much 
younger.  She  was  one  of  those  whom,  encountered  in  the 
streets  or  in  society,  one  might  guess  to  be  married — probably 
a  young  bride  ;  for  thus  seen  there  was  about  her  an  air  of  dig- 
nity and  of  self-possession  which  suits  well  with  the  ideal  of 
chaste  youthful  matronage  ;  and  in  the  expression  of  the  face 
there  was  a  pensive  thoughtfulness  beyond  her  years.  But  as 
she  now  sat  by  the  open  window  arranging  flowers  in  a  glass 
bowl,  a  book  lying  open  on  her  lap,  you  would  never  have  said, 
"  What  a  handsome  woman  !  "  you  would  have  said,  ''  What  a 
charming  girl  ! ''  All  about  her  was  maidenly,  innocent,  and 
fresh.  The  dignity  of  her  bearing  was  lost  in  household  ease, 
the  pensiveness  of  her  expression  in  an  untroubled  serene  sweet- 
ness. 

Perhaps  many  of  my  readers  may  have  known  friends  en- 
gaged in  some  absorbing  cause  of  thought,  and  who  are  in  the 
habit  when  they  go  out,  especially  if  on  solitary  walks,  to 
take  that  cause  of  thought  with  them.  The  friend  may  be  an 
orator  meditating  his  speech,  a  poet  his  verses,  a  lawyer  a  diffi- 
cult case,  a  physician  an  intricate  malady.  If  you  have  such  a 
friend,  and  you  observe  him  thus  away  from  his  home,  his  face 
will  seem  to  you  older  and  graver.  He  is  absorbed  in  the  care 
that  weighs  on  him.  When  you  see  him  in  a  holiday  moment 
at  his  own  fireside,  the  care  is  thrown  aside  ;  perhaps  he  mas- 
tered while  abroad  the  difficulty  that  had  troubled  him  ;  he  is 
cheerful,  pleasant,  sunny.  This  appears  to  be  very  much  the 
case  with  persons  of  genius.  When  in  their  own  houses  we  us- 
ually find  them  ver^'  playful  and  childlike.  Most  persons  of 
real  genius,  whatever  they  may  seem  out  of  doors,  are  very 
sweet-tempered  at  home ;  and  sweet  temper  is  sympathizing 
and  genial  in  the  intercourse  of  private  life.  Certainly,  observ^- 
ing  this  girl  as  she  now  bends  over  the  flowers,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  believe  her  to  be  the  Isaura  Cicogna  whose  letters 
to  Madam  de  Grantmesnil  exhibit  the  doubts  and  struggles  of 
an  unquiet,  discontented,  aspiring  mind.  Only  in  one  or  two 
passages  in  these  letters  would  you  have  guessed  at  the  writer 
in  the  girl  as  we  now  see  her. 

It  is  in  those  passages  where  she  expresses  her  love  of  bar- 


THE  PARISTAiVS,  89 

mony,  and  her  repugnance  to  contest — those  were  cliaracte?- 
istics  you  might  have  read  in  her  face. 

Certainly  the  girl  is  very  lovely.  What  long  dark  eyelashes, 
what  soft,  tender,  dark-blue  eyes — now  that  she  looks  up  and 
smiles,  what  a  bewitching  smile  it  is  ! — by  what  sudden  play  of 
rippling  dimples  the  smile  is  enlivened  and  redoubled  !  Do 
you  notice  one  feature  }  in  very  showy  beauties  it  is  seldom 
luiticed  ;  but  I,  being  in  my  way  a  physiognomist,  consider  that 
it  is  always  worth  heeding  as  an  index  of  character.  It  is  the 
ear.  Remark  how  delicately  it  is  formed  in  her — none  of  that 
heaviness  of  lobe  which  is  a  sure  sign  of  sluggish  intellect  and 
coarse  perception.  Hers  is  the  artist's  ear.  Note  next  those 
hands — how  beautifully  shaped  !  small  but  not  doll-like  hands 
— ready  and  nimble,  firm  and  nervous  hands,  that  could  work 
for  a  helpmate.  By  no  means  very  white,  still  less  red,  but 
somewhat  embrowned  as  by  the  sun,  such  as  you  may  not  see 
in  girls  reared  in  southern  climates,  and  in  her  perhaps  be- 
tokening an  impulsive  character  which  had  not  accustomed 
itself,  when  at  sport  in  the  open  air,  to  the  thraldom  of  gloves 
—very  impulsive  people  even  in  cold  climates  seldom  do. 

In  conveying  to  us  by  a  few  bold  strokes  an  idea  of  the 
sensitive,  quick-moved,  warm-blooded  Henry  II.,  the  most  im- 
pulsive of  the  Plantagenets,  his  contemporary  chronicler  tells 
us  that  rather  than  imprison  those  active  hands  of  his  even  in 
hawking  gloves  he  would  sufifer  his  falcon  to  fix  its  sharp  claws 
into  his  wrist.  No  doubt  there  is  a  difference  as  to  what  is  be- 
fitting between  a  burly  bellicose  creature  like  Henry  II.  and  a 
delicate  young  lady  like  Isaura  Cicogna  ;  and  one  would  not 
wish  to  see  those  dainty  wrists  of  hers  seamed  and  scarred  by 
a  falcon's  claws.  But  a  girl  may  not  be  less  exquisitely  femi- 
nine for  slight  heed  of  artificial  prettinesses.  Isaura  had  no  need 
of  pale  bloodless  hands  to  seem  one  of  Nature's  highest  grade 
of  gentlewomen  even  to  the  most  fastidious  ej'cs.  About  her 
there  was  a  charm  apart  from  her  mere  beauty,  and  often  dis- 
turbed instead  of  heightened  by  her  mere  intellect :  it  consisted 
in  a  combination  of  exquisite  artistic  refinement,  and  of  a  gen- 
erosity of  character  by  which  refinement  was  animated  into 
vigor  and  warmth. 

The  room,  which  was  devoted  exclusively  to  Isaura,  had  in 
it  much  that  spoke  of  the  occupant.  That  room,  when  first 
taken  furnished,  had  a  good  deal  of  the  comfortless  showiness 
which  belongs  to  ordinary  furnished  apartments  in  France, 
especially  in  the  Parisian  suburbs,  chiefly  let  for  the  summer — 
thin  limp  muslin  curtains  that  decline  to  draw,  stiff  mahogan) 


f)0  THE  PARISIANS. 

chairs  covered  with  yellow  Utrecht  velvet,  a  tall  secretaire  in 
a  dark  corner,  an  oval  buhl  table  set  in  tawdry  olmolu, 
islanded  in  the  centre  of  a  poor  but  gaudy  Scotch  carpet,  and 
but  one  other  table  of  dull  walnut-wood  standing  clothless 
before  a  sofa  to  match  the  chairs ;  the  eternal  ormolu  clock 
flanked  by  the  two  eternal  ormolu  candelabra  on  the  dreaiy 
mantelpiece.  Some  of  this  garniture  had  been  removed 
others  softened  into  cheeriness  and  comfort.  The  room  some 
how  or  other — thanks  partly  to  a  very  moderate  expenditure  in 
pretty  twills  with  pretty  borders,  gracefully  simple  table-covers, 
with  one  or  two  additional  small  tables  and  easy  chairs,  two 
simple  vases  filled  with  flowers, — thanks  still  more  to  a  name- 
less skill  in  rearrangement,  and  the  disposal  of  the  slight  nick- 
nacks  and  well-bound  volumes  which,  even  in  travelling,  women 
who  have  cultivated  the  pleasures  of  taste  carry  about  with 
them — had  been  coaxed  into  that  quiet  harmony,  that  tone  of 
consistent  subdued  color,  which  corresponded  with  the  charac- 
teristics of  the  inmate.  Most  people  might  have  been  puzzled 
where  to  place  the  piano,  a  semi-grand,  so  as  not  to  take  up 
too  much  space  in  the  little  room ;  but  where  it  was  placed  it 
seemed  so  at  home  that  you  might  have  supposed  the  room  had 
been  built  for  it. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  neatness  :  one  is  too  evident,  and 
makes  everything  about  it  seem  trite  and  cold  and  stiff,  and 
another  kind  of  neatness  disappears  from  our  sight  in  a  satisfied 
sense  of  completeness — like  some  exquisite,  simple,  finished 
style  of  writing — an  Addison's  or  a  St.  Pierre's. 

This  last  sort  of  neatness  belonged  to  Isaura,  and  brought 
to  light  the  well-known  line  of  Catullus  when  on  recrossing  his 
threshold  he  invokes  its  welcome — a  line  thus  not  inelegantly 
translated  by  Leigh  Hunt — 

"  Smile  every  dimple  on  the  cheek  of  Home." 

I  entreat  the  reader's  pardon  for  this  long  descriptive  digres 
sion ;  but  Isaura  is  one  of  those  characters  which  are  called 
many-sided,  and  therefore  not  very  easy  to  comprehend.  She 
gives  us  one  side  of  her  character  in  her  correspondence  with 
Madame  de  Grantmesnil,  and  another  side  of  it  in  her  own 
home  with  her  Italian  companion — half  nurse,  half  chaperon. 

"  Monsieur  Louvier  is  indeed  very  courteous,"  said  Isaura, 
looking  up  from  the  Howers  with  the  dimpled  smile  we  have 
noticed.  "  But  I  think,  Mndre,  that  we  should  do  well  to 
stay  nt  home  on  Saturday — not  peacefully,  for  I  owe  you  your 
re\enge  at  ci/c/ire.'" 


THE  FARISIANS. 


9' 


"You  can't  mean  \t,  Ficcola /'^  exclaimed  the  Signora  in 
evident  consternation.  "  Stay  at  home  ! — why  stay  at  home  ? 
Euchre  is  very  well  when  there  is  nothing  else  to  do  ;  but  change 
is  pleasant — le  bon  Dieu  likes  it — 

*  Ne  caldo  ne  gelo 
Resta  mai  in  cielo,' 

And  such  beautiful  ices  one  gets  at  M,  Louvier's  !  Did  you 
taste  the  pistachio  ice  ?  What  fine  rooms,  and  so  well  lit  up  ! 
— ]  adore  light.  And  the  ladies  so  beautifully  dressed — one 
sees  tlte  fashions.  Stay  at  home — play  at  euchre  indeed  ! 
Ficcola,  you  cannot  be  so  cruel  to  yourself — you  are  young." 

"  But,  dear  Madre,  just  consider — we  are  invited  because 
we  are  considered  professional  singers  :  your  reputation  as 
such  is  of  course  established — mine  is  not ;  but  still  I  shall  be 

asked  to  sing,  as  I  was  asked  before  ;  and  you  know  Dr.  C 

forbids  me  to  do  so  except  to  a  very  small  audience  ;  and  it  is 
so  ungracious  always  to  say  '  No ;  '  and  besides,  did  you  not 
yourself  say,  when  we  came  away  last  time  from  M.  Louvier's, 
that  it  was  very  dull — that  you  knew  nobody — and  that  the 
ladies  had  such  superb  toilets  that  you  felt  mortified— and " 

"  Zitto  !  zitto  !  you  talk  idly,  Piccola — very  idly.  I  was  mor. 
tified  then  in  my  old  black  Lyons  silk  ;  but  have  I  not  bought 
since  then  my  beautiful  Greek  jacket — scarlet  and  gold  lace  ? 
and  why  should  I  buy  it  if  I  am  not  to  show  it .-"  " 

"  But,  dear  Madre,  the  jacket  is  certainly  very  handsome, 
and  will  make  an  effect  in  a  little  dinner  at  the  Savarins'  or 
Mrs.  Morley's.  But  in  a  great  formal  reception  like  M.  Lou- 
vier's will  it  not  look " 

"  Splendid  !  "  interrupted  the  Signora. 

"  But  smgolarey 

'^  So  much  the  better  ;  did  not  that  great  English  lady  wear 
such  a  jacket,  and  did  not  every  one  admire  her — piu  tosto 
ifividia  che  compass ione  ?  " 

Isaura  sighed.  Now,  the  jacket  of  the  Signora  was  the  sub- 
ject of  disquietude  to  her  friend.  It  so  happened  that  a  young 
English  lady  of  the  highest  rank  and  the  rarest  beaut}^  had  ap- 
peared at  M.  Louvier's,  and  indeed  generally  in  the  beau  monde 
of  Paris,  in  a  Greek  jacket  that  became  her  very  much.  That 
jacket  had  fascinated,  at  M.  Louvier's,  the  eyes  of  the  Signora. 
But  of  this  Isaura  was  unaware.  The  Signora,  on  returning 
home  from  M.  Louvier's,  had  certainly  lamented  much  over  the 
mcsquin  appearance  of  her  own  old-fashioned  Italian  habiliments 
compared  with  the  brilliant  toilet   of  the  gay  Parisiennes ;  and 


g,  THE  PARISIANS. 

Isaura — quite  woman  enough  to  sympathize  with  woman  in  such 
womanly  vanities — proposed  the  next  day  to  go  with  the  Signora 
to  one  of  the  principal  couturieres  of  Paris  and  adapt  the 
Signora's  costume  to  the  fashions  of  the  place.  But  the  Signora, 
having  predetermined  on  a  Greek  jacket,  and  knowing  by  in- 
stinct that  Isaura  would  be  disposed  to  thwart  that  splendid 
predilection,  had  artfully  suggested  that  it  would  be  better  to 
go  to  the  couturiere  with  Madame  Savarin,  as  being  a  more  ex- 
jjerienced  adviser, — and  the  coupe  only  held  two. 

As  Madame  Savarin  was  about  the  same  age  as  the  Signora, 
and  dressed  as  became  her  years,  and  in  excellent  taste,  Isaura 
thought  this  an  admirable  suggestion,  and,  pressing  into  her 
chaperoii's  hand  a  billet  de  banque  sufficient  to  re-equip  her  cap- 
d-pie,  dismissed  the  subject  from  her  mind.  But  the  Signora 
was  much  too  cunning  to  submit  her  passion  for  the  Greek 
jacket  to  the  discouraging  comments  of  Madame  Savarin. 
Monopolizing  the  coupe,  she  became  absolute  mistress  of  the 
situation.  She  went  to  no  fashionable  couturiere'' s.  She  went 
to  *  magasin  that  she  had  seen  advertised  in  the  Fetites  Afficha 
as  supplying  superb  costumes  for  fancy  balls  and  amateur  per- 
formers in  private  theatricals.  She  returned  home  triumphant, 
with  a  jacket  still  more  dazzling  to  the  e3-e  than  that  of  the 
English  lady. 

When  Isaura  first  beheld  it,  she  drew  back  in  a  sort  of 
superstitious  terror,  as  of  a  comet  or  other  blazing  portent. 

"  Cosa  stupenda  !  " — (stupendous  thing !)  She  might  well 
be  dismayed  when  the  Signora  proposed  to  appear  thus  attired 
in  M.  Louvier's  salon.  What  might  be  admired  as  coquetry  of 
dress  in  a  young  beauty  of  rank  so  great  that  even  a  vulgarity 
in  her  would  be  called  distingue,  was  certainly  an  audacious- 
challenge  of  ridicule  in  the  elderly  ci-devant  music  teacher. 

But  how  could  Isaura,  how  can  any  one  of  common 
Immanity,  say  to  a  woman  resolved  upon  wearing  a  certa'n 
dress,  "  You  are  not  young  and  handsome  enough  for  that ''  ? 
— Isaura  could  only  murmur,  "  For  many  reasons  I  would 
rather  stay  at  home,  dear  Madre.''' 

"  Ah !  I  see  you  are  ashamed  of  me,"  said  the  Signora,  in 
softened  tones :  "  very  natural.  When  the  nightingale 
sings  no  more,  she  is  only  an  ugly  brown  bird  :"  and  therewith 
the  Signora  Venosta  seat(;d  herself  submissively,  and  began  to 
cry. 

On  this  Isaura  sprang  up,  wound  her  anns  around  the 
Signora's  neck,  soothed  her  with  coaxing,  kissed  and  petted 
her,  and  ended  by  saying,  "  Of  course  wc  will  go  ;"  and,  "  but 


THE  PARISIANS.  93 

let  me  choose  3'ou  another  dress — a  dark-green  velvet  trimmed 
with  blonde — blonde  becomes  you  so  well." 

"  No,  no — I  hate  green  velvet ,  anybody  can  wear  that. 
Piccola,  I  am  not  clever  like  thee  ;  I  cannot  amuse  myself  like 
thee  with  books.  I  am  in  a  foreign  land.  I  have  a  poor  head, 
but  I  have  a  big  heart  "  (another  burst  of  tears)  ;  "  and  that  big 
heart  is  set  on  my  beautiful  Greek  jacket." 

"  Dearest  J/art'/'^,"  said  Isaura,  half  weeping  too,  "forgive 
me  ;  you  are  right.  The  Greek  jacket  is  splendid;  I  shall  be 
so  pleased  to  see  you  wear  it.  Poor  Madre — so  pleased  to 
think  that  in  the  foreign  land  you  are  not  without  something 
that  pleases  you. 


CHAPTER  V. 


Conformably  with  his  engagement  to  meet  M.  Louvier 
Alain  found  himself  on  the  day  and  at  the  hour  named  in  M. 
Gandrin'»  salon.  On  this  occasion  Madame  Gandrin  did  not 
appear.  Her  husband  was  accustomed  to  gwt  diners  d' homfnes. 
The  great  man  had  not  yet  arrived.  "  I  think,  Marquis,"  said 
M.  Gandrin,  "  that  you  will  not  regret  having  followed  my 
advice  :  my  representations  have  disposed  Louvier  to  regard 
you  with  much  favor,  and  he  is  certainly  flattered  by  being  per- 
mitted to  make  your  personal  acquainlance." 

The  avoue  had  scarcely  finished  this  speech,  when  M, 
Louvier  was  announced.  He  entered  with  a  beaming  smile, 
which  did  not  detract  from  his  imposing  presence.  His  flat- 
terers had  told  him  that  he  had  a  look  of  Louis  Philippe  ; 
therefore  he  had  sought  to  imitate  the  dress  and  the  bonhomie 
of  that  monarch  of  the  middle  class.  He  wore  a  wig  elabor- 
ately piled  up,  and  shaped  his  whiskers  in  royal  harmony  with 
the  royal  wig.  Above  all,  he  studied  that  social  frankness  of 
manner  with  which  the  able  sovereign  dispelled  awe  of  liis 
presence  or  dread  of  his  astuteness.  Decidedly  he  was  a  man 
very  pleasant  to  converse  and  to  deal  with — so  long  as  there 
seemed  to  him  something  to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose  by  being 
pleasant.  He  returned  Alain's  bow  by  a  cordial  offer  of  both 
expansive  hands,  into  the  grasp  of  which  the  hands  of  the 
aristocrat  utterly  disappeared.  "  Charmed  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance, Marquis — still  more  charmed  if  you  will  let  me  be 


fj4  THE  PARISIANS. 

useful  during  your  sejoiir  ar  Paris.  Mafoi^  excuse  my  blunt- 
ness,  but  you  are  2ifori  beau  gar  con.  Monsieur,  your  father  was 
a  handsome  man,  but  you  beat  him  hollow.  Gandrin,  my 
friend,  would  not  you  and  I  give  half  our  fortunes  for  one  year 
of  this  fine  fellow's  youth  spent  at  Paris  ?  Peste !  what  love- 
letters  we  should  have,  with  no  need  to  buy  them  by  billets  ik 
banque!"  Thus  he  ran  on,  much  to  Alain's  confusion,  till 
dinner  was  announced.  Then  there  was  something  grandiose 
in  the  frank  bourgeois  style  wherewith  he  expanded  his  napkin 
and  twisted  one  end  into  his  waistcoat — it  was  so  manly  a  re- 
nunciation of  the  fashions  which  a  man  so  repandu  in  all 
circles  might  be  supposed  to  follow;  as  if  he  were  both  too 
great  and  too  much  in  earnest  for  such  frivolities.  He  was 
evidently  a  sincere  bon  vivant,  and  M.  Gandrin  had  no  less 
evidently  taken  all  requisite  pains  to  gratify  his  taste.  The 
Montrachet  served  with  the  oysters  was  of  a  precious  vintage. 
That  vin  de  luadere  which  accompanied  the  potage  a  la  bisqm 
would  have  contented  an  American.  And  how  radiant  became 
Louvier's  face  when  among  the  entrees  he  came  upon  laitances 
decarpes!  "The  best  thing  in  the  world,"  he  cried,  "and 
one  gets  it  so  seldom  since  the  old  Rocher  de  Cancale  has  lost 
its  renown.  At  private  houses  what  does  one  get  now  i* — blanc 
depoulet — flavorless  trash.  After  all,  Gandrin,  when  we  lose 
the  love-letters,  it  is  some  consolation  that  laitances  de  carpes 
^nd  sautes  de foie  gras  are  still  left  to  fill  up  the  void  in  our 
hearts.  Marquis,  heed  my  counsel ;  cultivate  betimes  the  taste 
for  the  table  ;  that  and  whist  are  the  sole  resources  of  declin- 
ing years.  You  never  met  my  old  friend  Talleyrand — ah,  no  ! 
he  was  long  before  your  time.  He  cultivated  both,  but  he  made 
two  mistakes.  No  man's  intellect  is  perfect  on  all  sides.  He 
confined  himself  to  one  meal  a  day,  and  he  never  learned  to 
play  well  at  whist.  Avoid  his  errors,  my  young  friend — 
avoid  them.  Gandrin,  I  guess  this  pineapple  is  English — it  is 
superb." 

"  You  are  right — a  present  from  the  Marquis  of  H ." 

"  Ah  !  instead  of  a  fee,  I  wager.  The  Marquis  gives  noth- 
ing for  nothing,  dear  man !  Droll  people  the  English.  You 
have  never  visited  England,  I  presume,  cher  Rochebriant  ?  " 

The  alTable  financier  had  already  made  vast  progress  in 
familiarity  with  his  silent  fellow-s;uest. 

^^1^en  the  dinner  was  over  and  the  three  men  had  re-entered 
\hii  salon  for  coffee  and  liqueurs,  Gandrin  left  Louvier  and 
Alain  alone,  saying  he  was  going  to  his  cabinet  for  cigars  which 
he  could  recommend.     Then  Louvier,  lightly  jxitting  the  Mar- 


THE  PARTS/A  XS. 


!»5 


quis  on  the  shoulder,  said,  with  what  the  French  call  effusion^ 
"My  dear  Rochebriant,  your  father  and  I  did  not  quite  under- 
stand each  other,  lie  took  a  tone  of  grand  seigneur  that  some 
times  wounded  me  ;  and  1  in  turn  was  perhaps  too  rude  in 
asserting  my  rights — as  creditor,  shall  I  say  ? — no,  as  fellow- 
citizen  ;  and  Frenchmen  are  so  vain,  so  over-susceptible — fire 
up  at  a  word — take  ofTence  when  none  is  meant.  We  two,  my 
dear  boy,  should  be  superior  to  such  national  foibles.  BreJ 
— I  have  a  mortgage  on  your  lands.  Why  should  that  thought 
mar  our  friendship  .''  At  my  age,  though  I  am  not  yet  old, 
one  is  flattered  if  the  young  like  us — pleased  if  we  can  oblige 
them  and  remove  from  iheir  career  any  little  obstacle  in  its 
way.  Gandrin  tells  me  you  wish  to  consolidate  all  the  charges 
on  your  estate  into  one  on  lower  rate  of  interest.     Is  it  so  ,'' " 

"  1  am  so  advised,"  said  the  Marquis. 

"  And  very  rightly  advised;  come  and  talk  with  me  about  it 
some  day  next  week.  I  hope  to  have  a  large  sum  of  money 
set  free  in  a  few  days.  Of  course,  mortgages  on  land  don't 
pay  like  speculations  at  the  Bourse  ;  but  I  am  rich  enough  to 
please  myself.     We  will  see —  we  will  see." 

Here  Gandrin  returned  with  the  cigars  ;  but  Alain  at  that 
time  never  smoked,  and  Louvier  excused  himself,  with  a  laugh 
and  a  sly  wink,  on  the  plea  that  he  was  going  to  pay  his  re- 
spects— as  doulitless  that  joli garcon  was  going  to  do  likewise 
— to  a  belle  dame  who  did  not  reckon  the  smell  of  tobacco 
among  the  perfumes  of  Houbigant  or  Arabia. 

"  Meanwhile,"  added  Louvier,  turning  to  Gandrin,  "I  have 
something  to  say  to  you  on  business  about  the  contract  for  that 
new  street  of  mine.  No  hurry — after  our  young  friend  has 
gone  to  his  '  assignation.'  " 

Alain  could  not  misinterpret  the  hint,  and  in  a  few  moments 
took  leave  of  his  host,  more  surprised  than  disappointed  that 
the  fuiancier  had  not  invited  him,  as  Graham  had  assumed  he 
would,  to  his  soiree  the  following  evening. 

When  Alain  was  gone,  Louvier's  jovial  manner  disappeared 
also,  and  became  bluffly  rude  rather  than  bluntly  cordial. 

"  Gandrin,  what  did  you  mean  by  saying  that  the  young  man 
was  no  muscadin  i      Jifuscadin — aristocrat — offensive  from  top 


to  toe." 


"  You  amaze  me,  you  seemed  to  take  to  him  so  cordia!!y." 
•'  And  pray  were  you  too  blind  to  remark  with  what  cold  re- 
serve he  responded  to  my  condescensions  i* — how  he    winced 
when  I  called  him  Rochebriant  ?  how  he  colored  when  I  called 
him  '  dear  boy  '  "i     These  aristocrats  think  we  ought  to  thank 


o6  TflE  PARISIANS. 

them  on  our  knees  when  the)^  take  our  money  and  ,"  here  Lou- 
vier's  face  darkened,   "  seduce  our  women." 

"  Monsieur  Louvier,  in  all  France  I  do  not  know  a  greater 
aristocrat  than  yourself." 

1  don't  know  whether  M.  Gandrin  meant  that  speech  as  a 
compliment,  but  M.  Louvier  took  it  as  such,  laughed  com- 
placently and  rubbed  his  hands.  "  Ay,  ay,  millionaires  are  the 
real  aristocrats,  for  they  have  power,  as  my  beau  Marquis  will 
soon  find.  I  must  bid  you  good-night.  Of  course  I  shall  see 
Madame  Gandrin  and  yourself  to-morrow.  Prepare  for  a  motley 
gathering,  lots  of  democrats  and  foreigners,  with  artists  and 
authors  and   such  creatures." 

"  Is  that  the  reason  why  you  did  not  invite  the  Marquis  .''  " 

"To  be  sure  ;  1  would  not  shock  so  pure  a  Legitimist  by 
contact  with  Uie  sons  of  the  people,  and  make  him  still  colder 
to  myself.  No  ;  when  he  comes  to  my  house  he  shall  meet 
lions  and  viveurs  of  the  haui  ton,  who  will  play  into  my  hands 
by  leaching  him  how  to  ruin  himself  in  the  quickest  manner 
and  in  the  genre  Louis  XV.     Bon  soir,  mon  vieux." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  next  night  Graham  in  vain  looked  round  for  Alain  in 
M.  Louvier's  salons,  and  missed  his  high-bred  mien  and  mel- 
ancholy countenance.  M.  Louvier  had  been  for  some  four 
years  a  childless  widower,  but  his  receptions  were  not  the  less 
numerously  attended,  nor  his  establishment  less  magnificently 
monte,  for  the  absence  of  a  presiding  lady ;  very  much  the 
contrary  ;  it  was  noticeable  how  much  he  had  increased  his 
Btatus  and  prestige  as  a  social  personage  since  the  death  of  his 
unlamented  spouse. 

To  say  truth,  she  had  been  rather  a  heavy  drag  on  his  tri- 
umphal car.  She  had  been  the  heiress  of  a  man  who  had 
amassed  a  great  deal  of  money,  not  in  the  higher  walks  of 
commerce,  but  in  a  retail  trade. 

Louvier  himself  was  the  son  of  a  rich  money-lender ;  he 
had  entered  life  with  an  ample  fortune  and  an  intense  desire 
to  be  admitted  into  those  more  brilliant  circles  in  which  fortune 
can  be  dissipated  with  cdat.     He  might  not  have  attained   this 


THE  PARISIANS. 


97 


object  but  for  the  friendly  countenance  of  a  young  noble  who 
was  then 

"  The  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of  form." 

But  this  young  noble,  of  whom  later  we  shall  hear  more,  came 
suddenly  to  grief ;  and  when  the  money-lender's  son  lost  that 
potent  protector,  the  dandies,  previously  so  civil,  showed  him  ? 
\ery  cold  shoulder. 

Louvier  then  became  an  ardent  democrat,  and  recruited  the 
fortune  he  had  impaired  by  the  aforesaid  marriage,  launched 
into  colossal  speculations,  and  became  enormously  rich.  His 
aspirations  for  social  rank  now  re.vived,  but  his  wife  sadly  in- 
terfered with  them.  She  was  thrifty  by  nature  ;  sympathized 
little  with  her  husband's  genius  for  accumulation  ;  always  said 
he  would  end  in  a  hospital ;  hated  Republicans  ;  despised  au- 
thors and  artists  ;  and  by  the  ladies  of  the  beau  monde  was 
pronounced  connnon  and  vulgar. 

So  long  as  she  lived,  it  was  impossible  for  Louvier  to  realize 
his  ambition  of  having  one  of  the  salons  which  at  Paris  establish 
celebrity  and  position.  He  could  not  then  command  those  u  l- 
vantages  of  wealth  which  he  especially  coveted.  He  was  em- 
inently successful  in  doing  this  now.  As  soon  as  she  was  safe 
in  Pere  la  Chaise,  he  enlarged  his  hotel  by  the  purchase  and 
annexation  of  an  adjoining  house  ;  redecorated  and  refurnished 
it,  and  in  ,this  task  displayed,  it  must  be  said  to  his  credit,  or  to 
that  of  the  administrators  he  selected  for  the  purpose,  a  noble- 
ness of  taste  rarely  exhibited  nowadays.  His  collection  of 
pictures  was  not  large,  and  consisted  exclusively  of  the  French 
school,  ancient  and  modern,  for  in  all  things  Louvier  effected 
the  patriot.  But  each  of  those  pictures  was  a  gem  ;  such  Wat- 
teaus  !  such  Greuzes  !  such  landscapes  by  Patel  !  and,  above 
all,  such  masterpieces  by  Ingres,  Horace  Verdet,  and  Dela- 
roche,  were  worth  all  the  doubtful  originals  of  Flemish  and 
Italian  art  which  make  the  ordinary  boast  of  private  collections. 

These  pictures  occupied  two  rooms  of  modern  size,  built 
for  their  reception  and  lighted  from  abov^e.  The  great  salon 
to  which  they  led  contained  treasures  scarcely  less  precious  ; 
the  walls  were  covered  with  the  richest  silks  which  the  looms 
of  Lyons  could  produce.  Every  piece  of  furniture  here  was 
a  work  of  art  in  its  way  ;  console-tables  of  Florentine  mosaic, 
inlaid  with  pearl  and  lapis-lazuli ;  cabinets  in  which  the  ex- 
quisite designs  of  the  renaissance  were  car\'ed  in  ebony  ;  colos- 
sal vases  of  Russian  malachite,  bur.  wrought  by  French  artists 


gg  THE  PARISJAAS, 

The  very  lucknacks  scattered  carelessly  about  the  room  might 
have  been  admired  in  the  cabinets  of  the  Palazzo  Pitti.  Be- 
yond this  room  lay  the  salle  de  danse,  its  ceiling  painted  by , 

supported  by  white  marble  columns,  the  glazed  balcony  and 
the  angles  of  the  room  filled  with  tiers  of  exotics.  In  the  din- 
ing-room, on  the  same  Hoor,  on  the  other  side  of  the  landing- 
place,  were  stored,  in  glazed  buffets,  not  only  vessels  and  salvers 
of  plate,  silver  and  gold,  but,  more  costly  still,  matchless  spec- 
imens of  Sevres  and  Limoges,  and  medieval  varieties  of 
Venetian  glass.  On  the  ground-floor,  which  opened  on  the 
lawn  of  a  large  garden,  Louvier  had  his  suite  of  private  apart- 
ments, furnished,  as  he  said,  "  simply,  according  to  English 
notions  of  comfort."  Englishmen  would  have  said  "  according 
to  French  notions  of  luxur)\"  Enough  of  these  details,  which 
a  writer  cannot  give  without  feeling  himself  somewhat  vulgar- 
ized in  doing  so,  but  without  a  loose  general  idea  of  which  a 
reader  would  not  have  an  accurate  conception  of  something  not 
vulgar — of  something  grave,  historical,  possibly  tragical, — the 
existence  of  a  Parisian  millionaire  at  the  date  of  this  narrative, 

I'he  evidence  of  wealth  was  everyAvhere  manifest  at  M. 
Louvier's,  but  it  was  everywhere  refined  by  an  equal  evidence 
of  taste.  The  apartments  devoted  to  hospitality  ministered 
to  the  delighted  study  of  artists,  to  whom  free  access  was 
given,  and  of  whom  two  or  three  might  be  seen  daily  in  the 
"  show-rooms,"  copying  pictures  or  taking  sketches  of  rare 
articles  of  furniture  or  effects  for  palatial  interiors. 

Among  the  things  which  rich  English  visitors  of  Paris 
most  coveted  to  see  was  M.  Louvier's  hotel ;  and  few  among 
the  richest  left  it  without  a  sigh  of  envy  and  despair.  Only 
in  such  London  houses  as  belong  to  a  Sutherland  or  a  Holford 
could  our  metropolis  exhibit  a  splendor  as  opulent  and  a  taste 
as  refined. 

M.  Louvier  had  his  set  evenings  for  popular  assemblies. 
At  these  were  entertained  the  Liberals  of  every  shade,  from 
truolorto  rouge,  with  the  artists  and  writers  most  in  vogue, 
pele-mele  with  decorated  diplomatists,  ex-ministers,  Orleanists, 
and  Republicans,  distinguished  foreigners,  plutocrats  of  the 
Bourse,  and  lions  male  and  female  from  the  arid  nurse  of  that 
race,  the  Chaussee  d'Antin.  Of  his  more  select  reunions 
something  will  be  said  later. 

"  And  how  does  this  poor  Paris  metamorphosed  please  Mon- 
sieur Vane  ?  "  asked  a  Frenchman  with  a  handsome  intelligent 
countenance,  very  carefully  dressed,  though  in  a  somewhat  by- 


THE  PARISIANS.  gg 

gone  fashion,  and  carrying  off  his  tenth  lustrum  with  an  air 
too  sprightly  to  evince  any  sense  of  the  weight. 

This  gentleman,  the  Vicomte  de  Brdzd,  was  of  good  birth, 
and  had  a  legitimate  right  to  his  title  of  Vicomre,  which  is 
more  than  can  be  said  of  many  vicomtes  one  meets  at  Paris. 
He  had  no  other  property,  however,  than  a  principal  share  in 
an  influential  journal,  to  which  he  was  a  lively  and  sparkling 
contributor.  In  his  youth,  under  the  reign  of  Louis  Philippe, 
he  had  been  a  chief  among  literary  exquisites,  and  Balzac 
was  said  to  have  taken  him  more-than  once  as  his  model  for 
those  brilliant  young  vauriens  who  figure  in  the  great  novelist's 
comedy  of  "  Human  Life."  The  Vicomte's  fashion  expired  with 
the  Orleanist  dynasty. 

"  Is  it  possible,  my  dear  Vicomte,"  answered  Graham, 
"  not  to  be  pleased  with  a  capital  so  marvellously  embel- 
lished?" 

"  Embellished  it  may  be  to  foreign  eyes,"  said  the  Vicomte, 
sighing,  "but  not  improved  to  the  taste  of  a  Parisian  like 
me.  I  miss  the  dear  Paris  of  old — the  streets  associated  with 
my  beaux  Jours  are  no  more.  Is  there  not  something  drearily 
monotonous  in  those  interminable  perspectives .''  How  fright- 
fully the  way  lengthens  before  one's  eyes  !  In  the  twists  and 
curves  of  the  old  Paris  one  was  relieved  from  the  pain  of  see- 
ing how  far  one  had  to  go  from  one  spot  to  another — each 
tortuous  street  had  a  separate  idiosyncrasy  ;  what  picturesque 
diversities,  what  interesting  recollections — all  swept  away ! 
Mon  Dieu  I  and  what  for  ?  Miles  of  florid  facades,  staring 
and  glaring  at  one  with  goggle-eyed  pitiless  windows  ; — house- 
rents  trebled  ;  and  the  consciousness  that,  if  you  venture  to 
grumble,  underground  railways,  like  concealed  volcanoes,  can 
burst  forth  on  you  at  any  moment  with  an  eruption  of  bay- 
onets and  muskets.  This  maiidit  empire  seeks  to  keep  its 
hold  on  France  much  as  a  grand  seigneur  seeks  to  enchain  a 
nymph  of  the  ballet, — tricks  her  out  in  finery  and  baubles, 
and  insures  her  infidelity  the  moment  he  fails  to  satisfy  her 
whims." 

"  Vicomte,"  answered  Graham,  "  I  have  had  the  honor  to 
know  you  since  I  was  a  small  boy  at  a  preparatory  school 
home  for  the  holidays,  and  you  were  a  guest  at  my  father's 
country-house.  You  were  \\)&nfete  as  one  of  the  most  prom- 
ising writers  among  the  young  men  of  the  day,  especially 
favored  by  the  princes  of  the  reigning  family.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  impression  made  on  me  by  your  brilliant  appearance 
ancl  your  no  less  brilliant  talk." 


loo  THE  PARISIANS. 

'^  Ah  !  CCS  beaux  Jours  !  ce  bon  Louis  Philippe^  ce  cher  petit 
£oinviUe  I "  sighed  the  Vicomte. 

"  But  at  that  day  you  compared  /<?  bon  Louis  Philippe  to 
Robert  Macaire.  You  described  all  his  sons,  including,  no 
douljt,  ce  chcr  petit  Joinville,  in  terms  of  resentful  contempt 
as  so  many  plausible  gamins  whom  Robert  Macaire  was  train 
'\ng  to  cheat  the  public  in  the  interest  of  the  family  firm.  I 
remember  my  father  saying  to  you  in  answer,  '  No  royal  house 
in  Europe  has  more  sought  to  develop  the  literature  of  an 
epoch,  and  to  signalize  its  representatives  by  social  respect 
and  official  honors,  than  that  of  the  Orleans  dynasty ;  you, 
M.  de  Breze,  do  but  imitate  your  elders  in  seeking  to  destroy 
the  dynasty  under  which  you  flourish  ;  should  you  succeed, 
you  homines  deplume  will  be  the  first  sufferers  and  the  loudest 
complainers.'" 

''  Cher  Monsieur  Vane"  said  the  Vicomte,  smiling  com- 
placently, "  your  father  did  me  great  honor  in  classing  me 
with  Victor  Hugo,  Alexandre  Dumas,  Emile  de  Girardin,  and 
the  other  stars  of  the  Orleanist  galaxy,  including  our  friend 
here,  M.  Savarin.     A  very  superior  man  was  your  father." 

"  And,"  said  Sa^-arin,  who,  being  an  Orleanist,  had  listened 
to  Graham's  speech  with  an  approving  smile — "  and  if  I  re- 
member right,  my  dear  De  Bre'ze',  no  one  was  more  brilliantly 
severe  than  yourself  on  poor  De  Lamartine  and  the  Republic 
that  succeeded  Louis  Philippe  ;  no  one  more  emphatically  ex- 
pressed the  yearning  desire  for  another  Napoleon  to  restore 
order  at  home  and  renown  abroad.  Now  you  have  got  another 
Napoleon." 

"  And  I  want  change  for  my  Napoleon."  said  De  Brdze, 
laughing. 

"  My  dear  Vicomte,''  said  Graham,  "  one  thing  we  may  all 
grant,  that  in  culture  and  intellect  you  are  far  superior  to  the 
mass  of  your  fellow-Parisians  ;  that  you  are  therefore  a  favor- 
able type  of  their  political  character." 

"  Ah^  nuvi  cher,  vous  etes  trap  aimable." 

"  And  therefore  I  venture  to  say  this  :  if  the  archangel 
Gabriel  were  permitted  to  descend  to  Paris  and  form  the  best 
government  for  France  that  the  wisdom  of  seraph  could  de- 
vise, it  would  not  be  two  years — I  doubt  if  it  would  be  six 
months — before  out  of  this  Paris,  which  you  call  the  Foyer 
dcs  Idees,  would  emerge  a  powerful  party,  adorned  by  yourself 
and  other //^wwd'i"  deplume,  in  favor  of  a  revolution  for  the 
benefit  of  ce  bon  Satan  and  ce  cher  petit  Beelzebub." 


THE  PARISIANS.  loi 

'*What  a  pretty  vein  of  satire  you  have,  tnon  cher  1^''  said  the 
Vicomte,  good-humoredly  ;  "  there  is  a  sting  of  truth  in  your 
witticism.  Indeed,  I  must  send  you  some  articles  of  mine  in 
which  I  have  said  much  the  same  thing — les  beaux  esprits  ren 
contrent.  The  fault  of  us  French  is  impatience — desire  of  change  ; 
but  then  it  is  that  desire  which  keeps  the  world  going  and  re> 
tains  our  place  at  the  head  of  it.  However,  at  this  time  we  are 
all  living  too  fast  for  our  money  to  keep  up  with  it,  and  too 
slow  for  our  intellect  not  to  flag.  We  vie  with  each  other  on 
the  road  to  ruin,  for  in  literature  all  the  old  paths  to  fame  are 
shut  up." 

Here  a  tall  gentleman,  with  whom  the  Vicomte  had  been 
conversing  before  he  accosted  Vane,  who  had  remained  beside 
De  Breze  listening  in  silent  attention  to  this  colloquy,  inter- 
posed, speaking  in  the  slow  voice  of  one  accustomed  to  measure 
his  words,  and  with  a  slight  but  unmistakable  German  accent — 
"  There  is  that,  M.  de  Bre'ze,  which  makes  one  think  gravely 
of  what  you  say  so  lightly.  Viewing  things  with  the  unprejudiced 
eyes  of  a  foreigner,  I  recognize  much  for  which  France  should 
be  grateful  to  the  Emperor.  Under  his  sway  her  material  resources 
have  been  marvellously  augmented  ;  her  commerce  has  been 
placed  by  the  treaty  with  England  on  sounder  foundations,  and 
is  daily  exhibiting  richer  life  ;  her  agriculture  has  made  a  prodi- 
gious advance  wherever  it  has  allowed  room  for  capitalists  and 
escaped  from  the  curse  of  petty  allotments  and  peasant-pro- 
prietors— a  curse  which  would  have  ruined  any  country  less 
blessed  by  Nature  ;  turbulent  factions  have  been  quelled  ;  in- 
ternal order  maintained  ;  the  external  prestige  of  France,  up 
at  least  to  the  date  of  the  Mexican  war,  increased  to  an  extent 
that  might  satisfy  even  a  Frenchman's  a7nour-propre  ;  and  her 
advance  in  civilization  has  been  manifested  by  the  rapid  crea- 
tion of  a  naval  power  which  should  put  even  England  on  her 
mettle.     But,  on  the  other  hand " 

"  Ay,  on  the  other  hand,"  said  the  Vicomte, 

''On  the  other  hand  there  are  in  the  Imperial  system  .wo 
causes  of  rot  silently  at  work.  They  may  not  be  the  faults 
of  the  Emperor,  but  they  are  such  misfortunes  as  may  cause  the 
fall  of  the  Empire.  The  first  is  an  absolute  divorce  between 
the  political  system  and  the  intellectual  culture  of  the  nation. 
The  throne  and  the  system  rest  on  universal  suffrage — on  a 
suffrage  which  gives  to  classes  the  most  ignorant  a  power  that 
preponderates  over  all  the  healthful  elements  of  knowledge.  It 
is  the  tendency  of  all  ignorant  multitudes  to  personify  them- 
selves, as  it  were,  in  one  individual.     They  cannot  comprehend 


,32  THE  PARISIANS. 

you  when  you  argue  for  a  principle  ;  they  do  comprehend  you  when 
you  talk  of  a  name.  The  Emperor  Napoleon  is  to  them  a  name, 
and  the  prefect  and  officials  who  influence  their  votes  are  paid  for 
incorporating  all  principles  in  the  shibboleth  of  that  single  name. 
You  have  thus  sought  the  well-spring  of  a  political  system  in 
the  deepest  stratum  of  popular  ignorance.  To  rid  popular  igno- 
rance of  its  normal  revolutionary  bias,  the  rural  peasants  are  in- 
doctrinated with  the  conservatism  that  comes  from  the  fear  which 
appertains  to  property.  They  have  their  roods  of  land  or  their 
shares  in  a  national  loan.  Thus  you  estrange  the  crassitude  of 
an  ignorant  democracy  still  more  from  the  intelligence  of  the 
educated  classes  by  combining  it  with  the  most  selfish  and  abject 
of  all  the  apprehensions  that  are  ascribed  to  aristocracy  and 
wealth.  What  is  thus  imbedded  in  the  depths  of  your  society- 
makes  itself  shown  on  the  surface.  Napoleon  III.  has  been 
compared  to  Augustus  ;  and  there  are  many  startling  similitudes 
between  them  in  character  and  in  fate.  Each  succeeds  to  the 
heritage  of  a  great  name  that  had  contrived  to  unite  autocracy 
with  the  popular  cause.  P^ach  subdued  all  rival  competitors, 
and  inaugurated  despotic  rule  in  the  name  of  freedom.  Each 
mingled  enough  of  sternness  with  ambitious  will  to  stain  with 
bloodshed  the  commencement  of  his  power  ;  but  it  would  be  an 
absurd  injustice  to  fix  the  same  degree  of  condemnation  on 
the  coup  d'etat  as  humanity  fixes  on  the  earlier  cruelties  of 
Augustus.  Each  once  firm  in  his  seat,  became  mild  and 
clement:  Augustus  perhaps  from  policy.  Napoleon  III.  from  a 
native  kindliness  of  disposition  which  no  fair  critic  of  character 
can  fail  to  acknowledge.  Enough  of  similitudes  ;  now  for  one 
salient  difference.  Observe  how  earnestly  Augustus  strove  and 
how  completely  he  succeeded  in  the  task,  to  rally  round  him  all 
th-  leading  intellects  in  every  grade  and  of  every  party — the 
followers  of  Antony,  the  friends  of  Brutus — every  great  captain, 
every  great  statesman,  every  great  writer,  every  man  who  could 
lend  a  ray  of  mind  to  his  own  Julian  constellation  and  make 
the  age  of  Augustus  an  era  in  the  annals  of  human  intellect 
and  genius.  But  this  has  not  been  the  good  fortune  of  your 
Emperor,  The  result  of  his  system  has  been  the  suppression 
of  iatellect  in  every  department.  He  has  rallied  round  him 
■  not  one  great  statesman  ;  his  praises  are  hymned  by  not  one 
great  poet.  The  celchritcs  of  a  former  days  stand  aloof,  or, 
preferring  exile  to  constrained  allegiance,  assail  him  with  un- 
remitting missiles  from  their  asylum  in  foreign  shores.  His 
reign  is  sterile  of  new  celebrites.  The  few  that  arise  enlist  them- 
selves against  him.     Whenever  he   shall  venture  to  give  full 


THE  PARISIANS,  103 

freedom  to  the  press  and  to  the  legislature,  the  intellect  thus 
suppresed  or  thus  hostile  will  burst  forth  in  collected  volume. 
His  partisans  have  not  been  trained  and  disciplined  to  meet  such 
assailants.  They  will  be  as  weak  as  no  doubt  they  will  be 
violent.  And  the  worst  is,  that  the  intellect  thus  rising  in 
mass  against  him  will  be  warped  and  distorted,  like  captives  who 
being  kept  in  chains,  exercise  their  limbs,  on  escaping,  in 
vehement  jumps  w'ithout  definite  object.  The  directors  of 
emancipated  opinion  may  thus  be  terrible  enemies  to  the  Im- 
perial Government,  but  they  will  be  very  unsafe  counsellors 
to  France.  Concurrently  with  this  divorce  between  the  Im- 
perial system  and  the  national  intellect  — a  divorce  so  complete 
that  even  yowx salons  have  lost  their  wit,  and  even  your  caricatures 
their  point — a  corruption  of  manners  which  the  Empire,  I  own, 
did  not  orginate,  but  inherit,  has  become  so  common  that 
every  one  owns  and  nobody  blames  it.  The  gorgeous  ostentation 
of  the  Court  has  perv'erted  the  habits  of  the  people.  The  intelli- 
gence obstructed  from  other  vents  betakes  itself  to  speculating 
for  a  fortune  ;  and  the  greed  of  gain  and  the  passion  for  show 
are  sapping  the  noblest  elements  of  the  old  French  manhood. 
Public  opinion  stamps  with  no  opprobrium  a  minister  or  favorite 
who  profits  by  a  job  ;  and  I  fear  you  will  find  that  jobbing  per- 
vades all  your  administrative  departrrients." 

"  All  very  true,"  said  De  Breze,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoul- 
ders and  in  a  tone  of  levity  that  seemed  to  ridicule  the  asser- 
tion he  volunteered  ;  "  Virtue  and  Honor,  banished  from  courts 
and  salons  and  the  cabinets  of  authors,  ascend  to  fairer  heights 
in  the  attics  of  ouvriers.'^ 

"The  ouvriers,  ouvriers  of  Paris  !  "  cried  this  terrible  Ger- 
man. 

"  Ay,  Monsieur  le  Comte  :  what  can  you  say  against  our 
ouvriers  1  A  German  count  cannot  condescend  to  learn  any- 
thing about  ces  petit  gens r 

"Monsieur,"  replied  the  German,  "in  the  eyes  of  a  states- 
man there  are  no  petit  gens,  and  in  those  of  a  philosopher  no 
petit  choses.  We  in  Germany  have  too  many  difficult  problems 
affecting  our  working-classes  to  solve,  not  to  have  induced  me 
to  glean  all  the  information  I  can  as  to  the  ouvriers  of  Paris. 
They  have  among  them  men  of  aspirations  as  noble  as  can  ani 
mate  the  souls  of  philosophers  and  poets,  perhaps  not  the  less 
noble  because  common  sense  and  experience  cannot  follow 
their  flight.  But,  as  a  body,  the  ouvriers  of  Paris  have  not 
been  elevated  in  political  morality  by  the  benevolent  aim  of  the 
Emperor  to  find  them   ample  work  and  good  wages,  indepen- 


f04  THE  PARISIANS. 

dent  of  the  natural  laws  that  regulate  the  markets  of  labor.  Ac 
customed  ihus  to  consider  the  State  bound  to  maintain  them, 
the  moment  the  State  fails  that  impossible  task  they  will  ac- 
commodate their  honesty  to  a  rush  upon  property  under  the 
name  of  social  reform.  Have  you  not  noticed  how  largely 
increased  within  the  last  few  years  is  the  number  of  those  who 
cry  out,  La propriete,  c'est  le  voP  ?  Have  you  considered  the 
rapid  growth  of  the  International  Association  ?  I  do  not  say 
that  for  all  these  evils  the  Empire  is  exclusively  responsible. 
To  a  certain  degree  they  are  found  in  all  rich  communities, 
especially  where  democracy  is  more  or  less  in  the  ascendant. 
To  a  certain  extent  they  exist  in  the  large  towns  of  Germany  ; 
they  are  conspicuously  increasing  in  England ;  they  are  ac- 
knowledged to  be  dangerous  in  the  United  States  of  America  ; 
ihey  are,  I  am  told  on  good  authority,  making  themselves  visi- 
ble with  the  spread  of  civilization  in  Russia.  But  under  the 
French  empire  they  have  become  glaringly  rampant ;  and  I 
venture  to  predict  that  the  day  is  not  far  off  when  the  rot  at 
work  throughout  all  layers  and  strata  of  French  society  will  in- 
sure a  fall  of  the  fabric  at  the  sound  of  which  the  world  will 
ring. 

"  There  is  many  a  fair  and  stately  tree  which  continues  to 
throw  out  its  leaves  and  rear  its  crest  till  suddenly  the  wind 
smites  it,  and  then,  and  not  till  then,  the  trunk  which  seems 
so  solid  is  found  to  be  but  the  rind  of  a  mass  of  crumbled 
powder." 

"  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  the  Vicomte,  "  3-ou  are  a  severe 
critic  and  a  lugubrious  prophet.  But  a  German  is  so  safe  from 
revolution  that  he  takes  alarm  at  the  stir  of  movement  which  is 
the  normal  state  of  the  French  esprit." 

"  French  esprit  may  soon  evaporate  into  Parisian  bet'ise.  As 
to  Germany  being  safe  from  revolution,  allow  me  to  repeat  a 
saving  of  Goethe's — but  has  M.  le  Comte  ever  heard  of 
Goethe  ? " 

"  Goethe,  of  course — tres-joli  ecrivain" 

•'  Goethe  said  to  some  one  who  was  making  much  the  same 
remark  as  yourself,  '  We  Germans  are  in  a  state  of  revolution 
now,  but  we  do  things  so  slowly  that  it  will  be  a  hundred  years 
before  we  Germans  shall  find  it  out.  But  when  completed,  it 
will  be  the  greatest  revolution  society  has  yet  seen,  and  will 
last  like  the  other  revolutions  that,  beginning,  scarce  noticed, 
in  Germany,  have  transformed  the  world.'  " 

"  Diable,  M.  le  Comte  !  Gennans  transfonned  the  world  ! 
What  revolutions  do  you  speak  of  .-*  " 


THE  PARISIAXS. 


105 


"The  invention  of  gunpowder,  the  invention  of  printing, 
and  the  expansion  of  a  monk's  quarrel  with  his  Pope  into  the 
Lutheran  revolution." 

Here  the  German  paused,  and  asked  the  Vicomte  to  intro- 
duce him  to  Vane,  which  De  Bre'zt^  did  by  the  title  of  Count 
von  Rudesheim.  On  hearing  Vane's  name,  the  Count  inquired 
if  he  were  related  to  the  orator  and  statesman,  George  Graham 
Vane,  whose  opinions  uttered  in  Parliament  were  still  authori- 
tative among  German  thinkers.  This  compliment  to  his  tie- 
ceased  father  immensely  gratified,  but  at  the  same  time  con- 
siderably surprised,  the  Englishman.  His  father,  no  doubt, 
had  been  a  man  of  much  influence  in  the  British  House  of 
Commons — a  very  weighty  speaker,  and,  while  in  office,  a  first- 
rate  administrator ;  but  Englishmen  know  what  a  House  of 
Commons  reputation  is — how  fugitive,  how  little  cosmopolitan  ; 
and  that  a  German  count  should  ever  have  heard  of  his  father 
delighted,  but  amazed  him.  In  stating  himself  to  be  the  son 
of  George  Graham  Vane,  he  intimated  not  only  the  delight,  but 
the  amaze,  with  the  frank  savoir-vivre  which  was  one  of  his 
salient  characteristics. 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  German,  speaking  in  very  correct  Eng- 
lish, but  still  with  his  national  accent,  "  every  German  reared 
to  political  service  studies  England  as  the  school  for  practical 
thought  distinct  from  impracticable  theories.  Long  may  you 
allow  us  to  do  so  :  only  excuse  me  one  remark  :  never  let  the 
selfish  element  of  the  practical  supersede  the  generous  element. 
Your  father  never  did  so  in  his  speeches,  and  therefore  we  ad- 
mired him.  At  the  present  day  we  don't  so  much  care  to  study 
English  speeches.  They  may  be  insular, — ^they  are  not  Euro- 
pean. I  honor  England  ;  Heaven  grant  tli^at  you  may  not  be 
making  sad  mistakes  in  the  belief  that  you  can  long  remain 
England  if  you  cease  to  be  European."  Herewith  the  German 
bowed,  not  uncivilly — on  the  contrary,  somewhat  ceremoniously 
— and  disappeared  with  a  Prussian  Secretary  of  Embassy, 
whose  arm  he  linked  in  his  own,  into  a  room  less  frequented, 

"  Vicomte,  who  and  what  is  your  German  count,''"  asked 
Vane, 

"  A  solemn  pedant,"  answered  the  lively  Vicomte — "  a  Ger- 
man count.     Que  voulez-vous  de  plus  ?  " 


,o5  'I'Hl^  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  LITTLE  later  Graham  found  himself  alone  among  the 
crowd.  Attracted  by  the  sound  of  music,  he  had  strayed  into 
one  of  the  rooms  whence  it  came,  and  in  which,  though  his 
range  of  acquaintance  at  Paris  was,  for  an  Englishman,  large 
and  somewhat  miscellaneous,  he  recogTiized  no  familiar  counte- 
nance. A  lady  was  playing  the  piano-forte — playing  remark- 
ably well — with  accurate  science,  with  that  equal  lightness  and 
strength  of  finger  which  produces  brilliancy  of  execution.  But 
to  appreciate  her  music  one  should  be  musical  one's  self.  It 
wanted  the  charm  that  fascinates  the  uninitiated.  The  guests 
in  the  room  were  musical  connoisseurs — a  class  with  whom 
Graham  Vane  had  nothing  in  common.  Even  if  he  had  been 
more  capable  of  enjoying  the  excellence  of  the  player's  per- 
formance, the  glance  he  directed  towards  her  would  have  suf- 
ficed to  chill  him  into  indifference.  She  was  not  young,  and, 
with  prominent  features  and  puckered  skin,  was  twisting  her 
face  into  strange  sentimental  grimaces,  as  if  terribly  overcome 
by  the  beauty  and  pathos  of  her  own  melodies.  To  add  to 
Vane's  displeasure,  she  was  dressed  in  a  costume  wholly  an- 
tagonistic to  his  views  of  the  becoming — in  a  Greek  jacket  of 
gold  and  scarlet,  contrasted  by  a  Turkish  turban. 

Muttering,  "  What  she-mountebank  have  we  here  .''  "  he 
sank  into  a  chair  behind  the  door,  and  fell  into  an  absorbed 
reverie.  From  this  he  was  aroused  by  the  cessation  of  the 
music,  and  the  hum  of  subdued  approbation  by  which  it  was 
followed.  Above  the  hum  swelled  the  imposing  voice  of  M. 
Louvier,  as  he  rose  from  a  seat  on  the  other  side  of  the  piano, 
by  which  his  bulky  form  had  been  partially  concealed. 

"  Bravo  !  perfectly  played — excellent !  Can  we  not  per- 
suade your  charming  young  countrywoman  to  gratify  us  even  with 
a  single  song  ?  "  Then,  turning  aside  and  addressing  some  one 
else  invisible  to  Graham,  he  said,  "  Does  that  tyrannical  doctor 
still  compel  you  to  silence,  Mademoiselle  ? " 

A  voice,  so  sweetly  modulated  that  if  there  were  any  sar- 
casm in  the  words  it  was  lost  in  the  softness  of  pathos,  answered 
"  Nay,  M.  Louvier,  he  rather  overtasks  the  words  at  my  com- 
mand in  thankfulness  to  those  who,  like  yourself,  so  kindly  re« 
gard  me  as  something  else  than  a  singer." 


THE  PARISIAKS.  107 

It  was  not  the  mountebank  who  thus  spoke.  Graham 
rose  and  looked  around  with  instinctive  curiosity.  He  met  the 
face  that  he  said  had  haunted  him.  She  too  had  risen,  standing 
near  the  piano,  with  one  hand  tenderly  resting  on  the  she- 
mountebank's  scarlet  and  gilded  shoulder  : — the  face  that 
haunted  him  and  yet  with  a  difference.  There  was  a  faint 
blush  on  the  clear  pale  cheek,  a  soft  yet  playful  light  in  the 
grave  dark-blue  eyes,  which  had  not  been  visible  in  the  coun- 
tenance of  the  young  lady  in  the  pearl-colored  robe.  Graham 
did  not  hear  Louvier's  reply  though  no  doubt  it  was  loud 
enough  for  him  to  hear.  He  sank  into  a  reverie.  Other 
guests  now  came  into  the  room,  among  them  Frank  Morley, 
styled  Colonel  (eminent  military  titles  in  the  States  do  not 
always  denote  eminent  military  services),  a  wealthy  American, 
and  his  sprightly  and  beautiful  wife.  The  Colonel  was  a  clever 
man,  rather  stiff  in  deportment  and  grave  in  speech,  but  by  no 
means  without  a  vein  of  dry  humor.  By  the  French  he  was 
esteemed  a  high  bred  specimen  of  the  kind  of  grand  seigneur 
which  domestic  republics  engender.  He  spoke  French  like  a 
Parisian,  had  an  imposing  presence,  and  spent  a  great  deal  of 
money  with  the  elegance  of  a  man  of  taste  and  the  generosity 
of  a  man  of  heart.  His  high  breeding  was  not  quite  so  well 
understood  by  the  English,  because  the  English  are  apt 
to  judge  breeding  by  little  conventional  rules  not  observed  by 
the  American  Colonel.  He  had  a  slight  nasal  twang  and  in- 
troduced  "  sir"  with  redundant  ceremony  when  addressing  En- 
glishmen, however  intimate  he  might  be  with  them,  and  had  the 
habit  (perhaps  with  a  sly  intention  to  startle  or  puzzle  them)  of 
adorning  his  style  of  conversation  with  quaint  Americanisms. 

Nevertheless,  the  genial  amiability  and  the  inherent  dignity 
of  his  character  made  him  acknowledged  as  a  thorough  gentle- 
man by  every  P^nglishman  however  conventional  in  tastes,  who 
became  admitted  into  his  intimate  acquaintance. 

Mrs.  Morley,  ten  or  twelve  years  younger  than  her  husband, 
had  no  nasal  twang,  and  employed  no  Americanisms  in  her  talk, 
which  was  frank,  lively  and  at  times  eloquent.  She  had  a  great 
ambition  to  be  esteemed  of  a  masculine  understanding:  Nature 
unkindly  frustrated  that  ambition  in  rendering  her  a  model  of 
feminine  grace.  Graham  was  immediately  acquainted  with 
Colonel  Morley,  and  with  Mrs.  Morley  had  contracted  one 
of  those  cordial  friendships  which,  perfectly  free  alike  from  polite 
flirtation  and  Platonic  attachment,  do  sometimes  spring  up  be- 
tween persons  of  opposite  sexes  without  the  slightest  danger  of 
changing  its  honest  character  into  morbid  sentimentality  or  un- 


Io8  THE  PARISfA.yS. 

lawful  passion.  The  Morleys  stopped  to  accost  Graham,  bu*; 
the  lady  had  scarcely  said  three  words  to  him,  before  catching 
sight  of  the  haunting  face,  she  daited  towards  it.  Her  hus- 
band, less  emotional,  bowed  at  the  distance,  and  said,  "To  my 
taste,  sir,  the  Signorina  Cicogna  is  the  loveliest  girl  in  the  present 
bee*  ancl  full  of  mmd,  sir." 

"  Singing  mind,"  said  Graham,  sarcastically,  and  in  the  ill 
natured  impulse  of  a  man  striving  to  check  his  inclination  to 
admire. 

"  1  have  not  heard  her  sing,"  replied  the  American,  dryly; 
"  and  the  words  '  singing  mind'  are  doubtless  accurately  Eng- 
lish, since  you  employ  them,  but  at  l^oston  the  collocation 
would  be  deemed  barbarous.  You  fly  off  the  handle.  The 
epithet,  sir,  is  not  in  concord  with  the  substantive." 

"  Boston  would  be  in  the  right,  my  dear  colonel.  I  stand 
rebuked  ;  mind  has  little  to  do  with  singing." 

"  I  take  leave  to  deny  that,  sir.  You  fire  into  the  wrong 
flock,  and  would  not  hazard  the  remark  if  you  had  conversed, 
as  I  have,  with  Signorina  Cicogna." 

Before  Graham  could  answer,  Signorina  Cicogna  stood  be- 
fore him,  leaning  lightly  on  Mrs.  Morley's  arm. 

"  Frank,  you  must  take  us  into  the  refreshment-room,"  said 
Mrs.  Morley  to  her  husband  ;  and  then,  turning  to  Graham, 
added,  "  Will  you  help  to  make  way  for  us  ? 

Graham  bowed,  and  offered  his  arm  to  the  fair  speaker. 

"  No,"  said  she,  taking  her  husband's.  "  Of  course  you 
know  the  Signorina,  or,  as  we  usually  call  her,  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna.  No  ?  Allow  me  to  present  you — Mr.  Graham  Vane 
— Mademoiselle  Cicogna.  Mademoiselle  speaks  English  like  a 
native." 

And  thus  abruptly  Graham  was  introduced  to  the  owner  of 
the  haunting  face.  He  had  lived  too  much  in  the  great  world 
all  his  life  to  retain  the  innate  shyness  of  an  Englishman,  but 
he  certainly  was  confused  and  embarrassed  when  his  eyes  met 
Isaura's  and  he  felt  her  hand  on  his  arm.  Before  quitting  the 
room  she  paused  and  looked  back.  Graham's  look  followed 
her  own,  and  saw  behind  them  the  lady  with  the  scarlet  jacket 
escorted  by  some  portly  and  decorated  connoisseur.  Isaura's 
face  brightened  to  another  kind  of  brightness — a  pleased  and 
tender  light. 

"  Poor  dear  Madre/^'  she  murmured  to  herself  in  Italian. 

*  A  common  expression  in  "  the  West  "  for  a  meeting  or  gathering  ot 
poople. 


THE  PARISIANS, 


109 


"  Madre^''  echoed  Graham,  also  in  Italian.  "  I  have  been 
misinformed,  then  :  that  lady  is  your  mother  ? " 

Isaura  laughed  a  pretty  low  silvery  laugh,  and  replied  in 
English,  "  She  is  not  my  mother,  but  I  call  her  Madre^  for  I 
know  no  name  more  loving." 

Graham  was  touched,  and  said  gently,  "  Your  own  mother 
was  evidently  very  dear  to  you." 

Isaura's  lip  quivered,  and  she  made  a  slight  movement  as  if 
she  would  have  withdrawn  her  hand  from  his  arm.  He  saw 
that  he  had  offended  or  wounded  her,  and,  with  the  straight- 
forward frankness  natural  to  him,  resumed  quickly, — 

"  My  remark  was  impertinent  in  a  stranger  ;  forgive  it." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  Monsieur." 

The  two  now  threaded  their  way  through  the  crowd,  both 
silent.  At  last,  Isaura,  thinking  she  ought  to  speak  first,  in 
order  to  show  that  Graham  had  not  offended  her,  said — 

"  How  lovely  Mrs.  Morley  is  !  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  like  the  spirit  and  ease  of  her  American  man- 
ner :  have  you  known  her  long,  Mademoiselle  .''  " 

"  No  ;  we  met  her  for  the  first  time  some  weeks  ago  at  M. 
Savarin's." 

"•'  Was  she  very  eloquent  on  the  rights  of  women  ?  " 

"  What !  you  have  heard  her  on  that  subject .''  " 

"  I  have  ran-ely  heard  her  on  any  other,  though  she  is  the 
best  and  perhaps  the  cleverest  friend  I  have  at  Paris  ;  but 
that  may  be  my  fault,  for  I  like  to  start  it.  It  is  a  relief  to  the 
languid  small-talk  of  society  to  listen  to  any  one  thoroughly  in 
earnest  upon  turning  the  world  topsy-turvy." 

"  Do  you  suppose  poor  Mrs.  Morley  would  seek  to  do  that 
if  she  had  her  rights ,''  "  asked  Isaura,  with  her  musical  laugh. 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it ;  but  perhaps  you  share  her  opiniona." 

"  I  scarcely  know  what  her  opinions  are,  but 

"  Yes— but .? " 

"  There  is  a — what  shall  I  call  it  ? — a  persuasion — a  senti- 
ment— out  of  which  the  opinions  probably  spring  that  I  do 
share." 

"  Indeed  1  a  persuasion,  a  sentiment,  for  instance,  that  a 
woman  should  have  votes  in  the' choice  of  legislators,  and,  I 
presume,  in  the  task  of  legislation  .-'  " 

"  No,  that  is  not  what  I  mean.  Still,  that  is  an  opinion, 
right  or  wrong,  which  grows  out  of  the  sentiment  I  speak  of." 

"Pray  explain  the  sentiment." 

"  It  is  always  so  difficult  to  define  a  sentiment,  but  does  it 
not  strike  you  that  in  proportion  as  the   tendency  of  modem 


,io  THE  TAKISIANS. 

civilization  has  been  to  raise  women  more  and  more  to  an  in- 
tellectual equality  with  men — in  proportion  as  they  read  and 
study  and  think — an  uneasy  sentiment,  perhaps  querulous, 
perhaps  unreasonable,  grows  up  within  their  minds  that  the 
conventions  of  the  world  are  against  the  complete  develop- 
ment of  the  faculties  thus  aroused  and  the  ambition  thus 
animated  ? — that  they  cannot  but  rebel,  though  it  may  be 
silently,  against  the  notions  of  the  former  age,  when  women 
were  not  thus  educated ;  notions  that  the  aim  of  the  sex 
should  be  to  steal  through  life  unremarked,  that  it  is  a  re- 
proach to  be  talked  of,  that  women  are  plants  to  be  kept  in  a 
hot-house  and  forbidden  the  frank  liberty  of  growth  in  the 
natural  air  and  sunshine  of  heaven  ?  This  at  least,  is  a  senti- 
ment which  has  sprung  up  within  myself,  and  I  imagine  that 
it  is  the  sentiment  which  has  given  birth  to  many  of  the 
opinions  or  doctrines  that  seem  absurd,  and  very  likely  are  so, 
to  the  general  public.  I  don't  pretend  even  to  have  considered 
these  doctrines.  I  don't  pretend  to  say  what  may  be  the 
remedies  for  the  restlessness  and  uneasiness  I  feel.  I  doubt  if 
on  this  earth  there  be  any  remedies.  All  1  know  is,  that  I  feel 
restless  and  uneasy," 

Graham  gazed  on  her  countenance,  as  she  spoke,  with  an 
astonishment  not  unmingled  with  tenderness  and  compassion 
— astonishment  at  the  contrast  between  a  vein  Of  reflection  so 
hardy,  expressed  in  a  style  of  language  that  seemed  to  him  so 
masculine,  and  the  soft  velvet  dreamy  eyes,  the  gentle  tones, 
and  delicate  purity  of  hues  rendered  younger  still  by  the  blush 
that  deepened  their  bloom. 

At  this  moment  they  had  entered  the  refreshment-room; 
but  a  dense  group  being  round  the  table,  and  both  perhaps  for- 
getting the  object  for  which  Mrs.  Morley  had  introduced  them 
to  each  other,  they  had  mechanically  seated  themselves  on  an 
ottoman  in  a  recess  while  Isaura  was  yet  speaking.  It  must 
seem  as  strange  to  the  reader  as  it  did  to  Graham  that  such  a 
speech  should  have  been  spoken  by  so  young  a  girl  to  an  ac- 
quaintance so  new.  But  in  truth  Isaura  was  very  little  con- 
scious of  Graham's  presence.  She  had  got  on  a  subject  that 
perplexed  and  tormented  her  solitary  thoughts — she  was  but 
thinking  aloud. 

"  I  believe,"  said  Graham,  after  a  pause,  "  that  I  compre- 
hend }our  sentiment  much  better  than  I  do  Mrs.  Morley's 
opinions;  but  permit  me  one  observation.  You  say,  truly, 
that  the  course  ot  modern  civilization  has  more  or  less  affected 
the  relative  position  of  woman  cultivated  beyond  that  level  on 


THE  PARISIANS.  xtl 

which  she  was  formerly  contented  to  stand — the  nearer  perhaps 
to  the  heart  of  man  because  not  lifting  her  head  to  his  height ; 
— and  hence  a  sense  of  restlessness,  uneasiness.  But  do  you 
suppose  that,  in  this  whirl  and  dance  of  the  atoms  which  com- 
pose the  rolling  ball  of  the  civilized  world,  it  is  only  women 
that  are  made  restless  and  uneasy  ?  Do  you  not  see,  amid  the 
masses  congregated  in  the  wealthiest  cities  of  the  world,  writh- 
Ings  and  struggles  against  the  received  order  of  things  ?  In 
this  sentiment  of  discontent  here  is  a  certain  truthfulness,  be- 
cause it  is  an  element  of  human  nature  ;  and  how  best  to  deal 
with  it  is  a  problem  yet  unsolved.  But  in  the  opinions  and 
doctrines  to  which,  among  the  masses,  the  sentiment  gives 
birth,  the  wisdom  of  the  wisest  detects  only  the  certainty  of  a 
common  ruin,  offering  for  reconstruction  the  same  building- 
materials  as  the  former  edifice — materials  not  likely  to  be  im- 
proved because  they  may  be  defaced.  Ascend  from  the  work- 
ing-classes to  all  others  in  which  civilized  culture  prevails,  and 
you  will  find  that  same  restless  feeling — the  fluttering  of  un- 
tried wings  against  the  bar  between  wider  space  and  their 
lodgings.  Could  you  poll  all  the  educated  ambitious  young 
men  in  England — perhaps  in  Europe — at  least  half  of  them, 
divided  between  a  reverence  for  the  past,  a  curiosity  as  to  the 
future,  would  sigh,  '  I  am  born  a  century  too  late  or  a  century 
too  soon  !  " 

Isaura  listened  to  this  answer  with  a  profound  and  absorb- 
ing interest.  It  was  the  first  time  that  a  clever  young  man 
talked  thus  sympathetically  to  her,  a  clever  young  girl. 

Then  rising,  he  said,  "  I  see  your  Madre  and  our  American 
friends  are  darting  angry  looks  at  me.  They  have  made  room 
for  us  at  the  table,  and  are  wondering  why  I  should  keep  you 
thus  from  the  good  things  of  this  little  life.  One  word  more 
ere  we  join  them :  Consult  your  own  mind,  and  consider 
whether  your  uneasiness  and  unrest  are  caused  solely  by  conven- 
tional shackles  on  your  sex.  Are  they  not  equally  common  to 
the  youth  of  ours  ? — common  to  all  who  seek  in  art,  in  letters, 
t:ay,  in  the  stormier  field  of  active  life,  to  clasp  as  a  reality 
some  image  yet  seen  but  as  a  dream  ?  " 


1,2  THE  rAKISJANS. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

No  further  conversation  in  the  way  of  sustained  dialogue 
took  place  that  evening  between  Graham  and  Isaura. 

The  Americans  and  Savarians  ckistered  around  Isaura 
7\'hen  they  quitted  the  refreshrr.ent-room.  The  party  was  break- 
ing up.  Vane  would  have  ofifered  his  arm  again  to  Isaura,  but 
M.  Savarin  had  forestalled  him.  The  American  was  despatched 
by  his  wife  to  see  for  the  carriage  ;  and  Mrs.  Morley  said,  with 
her  wonted  sprightly  tone  of  command, — 

"  Now,  Mr.  Vane,  you  have  no  option  but  to  take  care  of 
me  to  the  shawl-room." 

Madame  Savarin  and  Signora  Venosta  had  each  found  their 
cavaliers,  the  Italian  still  retaining  hold  of  the  portly  connois- 
seur, and  the  Frenchwoman  accepting  the  safeguard  of  the 
Vicomte  de  Br^zd.  As  they  descended  the  stairs,  Mrs.  Morley 
asked  Graham  what  he  thought  of  the  young  lady  to  whom  she 
had  presented  him. 

"  I  think  she  is  charming,"  answered  Graham. 

"  Of  course  ;  that  is  the  sterotyped  answer  to  all  such  ques- 
tions, especially  by  you  Englishmen.  In  public  or  in  private, 
England  is  the  mouthpiece  of  platitudes." 

"  It  is  natural  for  an  American  to  think  so.  Every  child 
that  has  just  learned  to  speak  uses  bolder  ex])ressions  than  its 
grandmamma ;  but  I  am  rather  at  a  loss  to  know  by  what 
novelty  of  phrase  an  American  would  ha\'e  answered  your  ques- 
tion." 

"An  American  would  have  discovered  that  Isaura  Cicogna 
had  a  soul,  and  his  answer  would  have  confessed  it." 

"  It  strikes  me  that  he  would  then  have  uttered  a  platitude 
more  stolid  than  mine.  Every  Christian  knows  that  the  dullest 
human  being  has  a  soul.  But,  to  speak  frankly,  I  grant  that 
my  answer  did  not  do  justice  to  the  Signorina,  nor  to  the  im 
pression  she  makes  on  me  ;  and,  putting  aside  the  charm  of 
the  face,  there  is  a  charm  in  a  mind  that  seems  to  have 
gathered  stores  of  reflection  which  I  should  scarcely  have  ex- 
])ected  to  find  in  a  young  lady  brought  up  to  be  a  professional 
singer." 

"You  add  prejudice  to  platitude,  and  are  horribly  prosaic 
to-night ;  but  here  we  arc  in  the  shawl-room.     I  must  take  an- 


THE  PARISIANS.  113 

Other  opportunity  of  attacking  you.  Pray  dine  with  us  to-mor- 
row ;  you  will  meet  our  Minister  and  a  few  othe-^  pleasant 
friends." 

"  I  suppose  I  must  not  say,  I  shall  be  charmed,'  "  answered 
Vane  ;  "  but  I  shall  be." 

"  Bon   Dieu !   that  horrid   fat  man  has  deserted   Signora 
Venosta — looking  for  his  own  cloak,  I  daresay — selfish  mon- 
ster !     Go  and   hand   her   to  her   carriage — quick,    it   is   an 
nounced  !  " 

Graham,  thus  ordered,  hastened  to  offer  his  arm  to  the  she- 
mountebank.  Somehow  she  had  acquired  dignity  in  his  eyes 
and  he  did  not  feel  the  least  ashamed  of  being  in  contact  with 
the  scarlet  jacket. 

The  Signora  grappled  to  him  with  a  confiding  familiarity. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  said  in  Italian,  as  they  passed  along  the 
spacious  hall  to  the  parte  cochere — "  I  am  afraid  that  I  did  not 
make  a  good  effect  to-night.  I  was  nervous  ;  did  not  you  per- 
ceive it  ?" 

"  No,  indeed  ;  you  enchanted  us  all,"  replied  the  dissimu- 
lator. ''. 

"  How  amiable  you  are  to  say  so  ! — you  must  think  that  I 
sought  for  a  compliment.  So  I  did — you  gave  me  more  than 
I  deserved.  Wine  is  the  milk  of  old  men,  and  praise  of  old 
women.  But  an  old  man  may  be  killed  by  too  much  w'ine, 
and  an  old  woman  lives  all  the  longer  for  too  much  praise — 
hiiona  7iottc." 

Here  she  sprang,  lithesomely  enough,  into  the  carriage, 
and  Isaura  followed,  escorted  by  M.  Savarin.  As  the  two  men 
returned  towards  the  shawl-room,  the  Frenchman  said,  "  Ma- 
dame Savarin  and  I  complain  that  you  have  not  let  us  see  so 
much  of  you  as  we  ought.  No  doubt  you  are  greatly  sought 
after  ;  but  are  you  free  to  take  your  soup  with  us  the  day  after 
"io-morrow  .-'     You  will  meet  a  select  few  of  my  coiifreres^ 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow  I  will  mark  with  a  white  stone. 
To  dine  with  M.  Savarin  is  an  event  to  a  man  who  covets  dis- 
tinction." 

"  Such  compliments  reconcile  an  author  to  his  trade.  You 
deserve  the  best  return  I  can  make  you.  Vou  will  meet  la  helh 
Isaura.  I  have  just  engaged  her  and  her  chaperon.  She  is  a 
girl  of  true  genius  ;  and  genius  is  like  those  objects  of  vertu 
which  belong  to  a  former  age,  and  become  every  day  more  scarce 
and  more  precious." 

Here  they  encountered  Colonel  Morley  and  his  wife  hurry- 
ing to  their  carriage.     The  American  stopped  Vane,  and  whis- 


^,^  THK  PARISIANS. 

pered,  "  I  am  glnd,  sir,  to  hear  from  my  wife  (hat  you  dine  with 
us  to-morrow.  Sir,  you  will  meet  Mademoiselle  Cicogua,  and 
I  am  not  without  a  kinkle*  that  you  will  be  enthused." 

"  This  seems  like  a  fatality,"  soliloquized  Vane  as  he  walked 
through  the  deserted  streets  towards  his  lodging.  "  I  strove  to 
banish  that  haunting  face  from  my  mind.     I  had  half  forgotten 

it  ;  and  now "   Here   his   murmur  sank   into  silence.     He 

was  deliberating  in  very  confliciing  thought  whether  or  not  he 
should  write  to  refuse  the  two  invitations  he  had  accepted. 

"  Pooh  !  "  he  said  at  last,  as  he  reached  the  door  of  his 
lodging,  "  is  my  reason  so  weak  that  it  should  be  influenced  by 
a  mere  superstition  ?  Surely  1  know  myself  too  well  and  have 
tried  myself  too  long  to  fear  that  I  should  be  untrue  to  the 
duty  and  ends  of  my  life,  even  if  I  found  my  heart  in  danger 
of  suffering." 

Certainly  the  Fates  do  seem  to  mock  our  resolves  to  keep 
our  feet  from  their  ambush  and  our  hearts  from  their  snare. 

How  our  lives  may  be  colored  by  that  which  seems  to  us  the 
most  trivial  accident,  the  merest  chance  !  Suppose  that  Alain 
de  Rochebriant  had  been  invited  to  i\\dX  reunion  at  M.  Louvier's 
and  Graham  Vane  had  accepted  some  other  invitation  and 
passed  the  evening  elsewhere,  Alain  would  probably  have 
been  presented  to  Isaura — what  then  might  have  happened  ? 
The  impression  Isaura  had  already  made  upon  the  young 
Frenchman  was  not  so  deep  as  that  made  upon  Graham  ;  but 
then  Alain's  resolution  to  efface  it  was  but  commenced  that  day 
and  by  no  means  yet  confirmed.  And  if  he  had  been  the  first 
clever  young  man  to  talk  earnestly  to  that  clever  young  girl, 
who  can  guess  what  impression  he  might  have  made  upon  her.? 
His  conversation  might  have  had  less  philosophy  and  strong 
sense  than  Graham's,  but  more  of  poetic  sentiment  and  fascina- 
ting romance. 

However,  the  history  of  events  that  do  not  come  to  pass  is 
not  in  the  chronicle  of  the  Fates. 

•  A  notion. 


THE  PAKISIANS.  ,  j  ^ 


BOOK       III. 


CHAPTER     I. 

The  next  day  the  guests  at  the  Morley's  had  assembled 
when  Vane  entered.  His  apology  for  unpunctuality  was  cut 
short  by  the  lively  hostess  ;  "  Your  pardon  is  granted  without  the 
humiliation  of  asking  for  it ;  we  know  the  character  of  the  En- 
glish is  always  to  be  a  little  behindhand." 

s^She  then  proceeded  to  introduce  him  to  the  American 
Minister,  to  a  distinguished  American  poet,  with  a  countenance 
striking  for  its  mingled  sweetness  and  power,  and  one  or  two 
other  of  her  countrymen  sojourning  at  Paris  ;  and  this  ceremony 
over,  dinner  was  announced,  and  she  bade  Graham  offer  his  arm 
to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna. 

"  Have  you  ever  visited  the  United  States,  Mademoiselle  ?" 
asked  Vane,  as  they  seated  themselves  at  the  table. 

"  No." 

"  It  is  a  voyage  you  are  sure  to  make  soon." 

"  Why  so  .?  " 

"  Because  report  says  you  will  create  a  great  sensation  at 
the  very  commencement  of  your  career;  and  the  New  World  is 
ever  eager  to  welcome  each  celebrity  that  is  achieved  in  the 
Old  ;  more  especially  that  which  belongs  to  your  enchanting 
art." 

"  True,  sir,"  said  an  American  senator,  solemnly  striking 
into  the  conversation  ;  "  we  are  an  appreciative  people  ;  and  if 
that  lady  be  as  fine  a  singer  as  I  am  told,  she  might  command 
any  amount  of  dollars." 

Isaura  colored,  and  turning  to  Graham,  asked  him  in  a  low 
voice  if  he  were  fond  of  music. 

*'  1  ought  of  course  to  say  '  yes,'  "  answered  Graham  in  the 
same  tone  ;  "  but  I  doubt  if  that  '  yes '  would  be  an  honest  one. 
In  some  moods,   music — if  a  kind  of  music  I  like — affects  me 


, ,  6  THE  PARISIANS. 

verv  deeply;  in  other  moods,  not  at  all.  And  I  cannot  bear 
much  at  a'  lime,  A  concert  wearies  me  shamefully  ;  even  an 
opera  always  seems  to  me  a  great  deal  too  long.  But  I  ought 
to  add  that'  I  am  no  judge  of  music  ;  that  music  was  never  ad- 
mitted into  my  education ;  and,  between  ourselves,  I  doubt  if 
there  be  one  Englishman  in  five  hundred  who  would  care  for 
opera  or  concert  if  it  were  not  the  fashion  to  say  he  did.  Does 
my  frankness  revolt  you  ?  " 

"  Oil  the  contrary — I  sometimes  doubt,  especially  of  late,  if 
I  am  fond  of  music  myself." 

"  Signorina — pardon  m-e — it  is  impossible  that  you  should 
not  be.  Genius  can  never  be  untrue  to  itself,  and  must  love 
that  in  which  it  excels — that  by  which  it  communicates  joy, 
and,"  he  added,"  with  a  half-suppressed  sigh,  "attains  to 
glory." 

"  Genius  is  a  divine  word,  and  not  to  be  applied  to  a  singer," 
said  Isaura,  with  a  humility  in  which  there  was  an  earnest  sad- 
ness. 

Graham  was  touched  and  startled ;  but  before  he  could  an- 
swer, the  American  Minister  appealed  to  him  across  the  table, 
asking  if  he  had  quoted  accurately  a  passage  in  a  speech  by 
Graham's  distinguished  father,  in  regard  to  the  share  which 
England  ought  to  take  in  the  political  affairs  of  Europe. 

The  conversation  now  became  general ;  very  political  and 
very'  serious.  Graham  was  drawn  into  it,  and  grew  animated 
and  eloquent. 

Isaura  listened  to  him  with  admiration.  She  w-as  struck  by 
what  seemed  to  her  a  nobleness  of  sentiment  which  elevated 
liis  theme  above  the  level  of  commonplace  polemics.  She  was 
]ileased  to  notice,  in  the  attentive  silence  of  his  intelligent 
listeners,  that  they  shared  the  effect  prochiced  on  herself.  In 
fact,  Graham  Vane  was  a  born  orator,  and  his  studies  had  been 
those  of  a  political  thinker.  In  common  talk  he  was  but  the 
accomplished  man  of  the  world,  easy  and  frank  and  genial,  with 
a  touch  of  good-natured  sarcasm.  But  when  the  subject  started 
drew  him  upward  to  those  heights  in  which  politics  become  the 
science  of  humanity,  he  seemed  a  changed  being.  His  cheek 
glowed,  his  eye  brightened,  his  voice  mellowed  into  richer  tones, 
his  language  became  unconsciously  adorned.  In  such  mo- 
ments there  might  scarcely  be  an  audience,  even  differing  from 
him  in  opinion,  which  would  not  have  acknowledged  his  spell. 

When  the  party  adjourned  to  the  salon,  Isaura  said  softly 
to  Graham,  "  I  understand  why  you  did  not  cultivate  music; 
ati  '  I  fliink,  too,  that  I  now  understand  v.hat  eifocts  the  human 


THE  PARISIANS.  1x7 

voice  can  produce  on  human  minds,  without  recurring  to  the 
art  of  song," 

"  Ah,"  said  Graham,  with  a  pleased  smile,  "  do  not  make 
me  ashamed  of  my  former  rudeness  by  the  revenge  of  compU- 
ment,  and,  above  all,  do  not  disparage  your  own  art  by  suppos- 
ing that  any  prose  effect  of  voice  in  its  utterance  of  mind  can 
interpret  that  which  music  alone  can  express,  even  to  listeners 
so  uncultivated  as  myself.  Am  I  not  told  truly  by  musical 
composers,  when  I  ask  them  to  explain  in  words  what  they  say 
in  their  music,  that  such  explanation  is  impossible,  that  music 
has  a  language  of  its  own,  untranslatable  by  words  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Isaura,  with  thoughtful  brow  but  brightening 
eyes,  "you  are  told  truly.  It  was  only  the  other  day  that  I  was 
pondering  over  that  truth." 

"  But  what  recesses  of  mind,  of  heart,  of  soul,  this  untrans- 
latable language  penetrates  and  brightens  up  !  How  incomplete 
the  grand  nature  of  man — though  man  the  grandest — would  be, 
if  you  struck  out  of  his  reason  the  comprehension  of  poetry, 
music,  and  religion !  In  each  are  reached  and  are  sounded 
deeps  in  his  reason  otherwise  conc<ialed  from  himself.  History, 
knowledge,  science,  stop  at  the  point  in  which  mystery  begins. 
There  they  meet  with  the  world  of  shadow.  Not  an  inch  of  that 
world  can  they  penetrate  without  the  aid  of  poetry  and  religion, 
two  necessities  of  intellectual  man  much  more  nearly  allied 
than  the  votaries  of  the  practical  and  the  positive  suppose. 
To  the  aid  and  elevation  of  both  those  necessities  comes  in 
music,  and  there  has  never  existed  a  religion  in  the  world  which 
has  not  demanded  music  as  its  ally.  If,  as  I  said  frankly,  it  is 
only  in  certain  moods  of  my  mind  that  I  enjoy  music,  it  is  only 
because  in  certain  moods  of  my  mind  I  am  capable  of  quitting 
the  guidance  of  prosaic  reason  for  the  world  of  shadow  ;  that  I 
am  so  susceptible  as  at  every  hour,  were  my  nature  perfect,  I 
should  be  to  the  mysterious  influences  of  poetry  and  religion. 
Do  you  understand  what  I  wish  to  express .''  " 

"Yes,  I  do  and  clearly."  , 

"  Then,  Signorina,  you  are  forbidden  to  undervalue  the  gift 
of  song.  You  must  feel  its  power  over  the  heart,  when  you 
enter  the  opera-house  ;  over  the  soul,  when  you  kneel  in  a 
cathedral." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Isaura,  with  enthusiasm,  a  rich  glow  mantling 
over  her  lovely  face,  "  how  I  thank  you  !  Is  it  you  who  say  you 
do  not  love  music  ?  How  much  better  you  understand  it  tliajr  I 
did  till  this  moment !  " 

Here  Mrs.  Morley,  joined  by  the  American   poet,  came  to 


,i8  THE  TAKISTANS. 

the  corner  in  which  the  Englishman  and  the  singer  had  niclied 
themselves.  The  poet  began  to  talk,  the  other  guests  gathered 
round,  and  every  one  listened  reverentially  till  the  party  broke 
up.  Colonel  Morley  handed  Isaura  to  her  carriage — the  she- 
mountebank  again  fell  to  the  lot  of  Graham. 

"  Signor,"  said  she,  as  he  respectfully  placed  her  shawl 
round  her  scarlet-and-gilt  jacket.  "  are  we  so  far  from  Paris 
that  you  cannot  spare  the  time  to  call  ?  My  child  does  not  sing 
in  public,  but  at  home  you  can  hear  her.  It  is  not  every  wo- 
man's voice  that  is  sweetest  at  home." 

Graham  bowed,  and  said  he  would  call  on  the  morrow. 

Isaura  mused  in  silent  delight  over  the  w-ords  which  had  so 
extolled  the  art  of  the  singer.  Alas,  poor  child  !  she  could 
not  guess  that  in  those  words,  reconciling  her  to  the  profession 
of  the  stage,  the  speaker  was  pleading  against  his  own  heart. 

There  was  in  Graham's  nature,  as  I  think  it  commonly  is  in 
that  of  most  true  orators,  a  wonderful  degree  of  tntelledual  con- 
science^ which  impelled  him  to  acknowledge  the  benignant  influ 
ences  of  song,  and  to  set  before  the  young  singer  the  noblest 
incentives  to  the  profession  to  which  he  deemed  her  assuredl) 
destined.  But  in  so  doing  he  must  have  felt  that  he  was  wid- 
ening  the  gulf  between  her  life  and  his  own  :  perhaps  he  wished 
to  widen  it  in  proportion  as  he  dreaded  to  listen  to  any  voice 
in  his  heart  which  asked  if  the  gulf  might  not  be  overleaped. 


CHAPTER  II. 

On  the  morrow  Graham  called  at  the  villa  at  A .     The 

two  ladies  received  him  in  Isaura's  chosen  sittintr-room. 

Somehow  or  other,  conversation  at  first  languished.  Gra- 
ham was  teserved  and  distant,  Isaura  shy  and  embarrassed. 

The  Venosta  had  \\\^frais  of  making  talk  to  herself.  Prob- 
ably at  another  time  Graham  would  have  been  amused  and  in- 
terested in  the  observation  of  a  character  new  to  him,  and  thor- 
oughly southern — lovable  not  more  from  its  7iaive  simplicity 
of  kindliness  than  from  various  little  foibles  and  vanities,  all  of 
which  were  harmless,  and  some  of  them  endearing  as  those  of 
a  child  whom  it  is  easy  to  make  happy  and  whom  it  seems  so 
cruel  to  pain  ;  and  with  all  the  Venosta's  deviations  from  the 
polished   and  tranquil  good  taste  of  the  beau  mofuie,  she  had 


THE  PARISIANS.  iig 

that  indescribable  grace  which  rarely  deserts  a  Florentine,  so 
that  you  might  call  her  odd,  but  not  vulgar  ;  while,  though  un- 
educated, except  in  the  way  of  her  old  profession,  and  never 
having  troubled  herself  to  read  anything  but  a  libretto,  and  the 
pious  books  commended  to  her  by  her  confessor,  the  artless 
babble  of  her  talk  every  now  and  then  flashed  out  with  a  quaint 
humor,  lighting  up  terse  fragments  of  the  old  Italian  wisdom 
which  had  mysteriously  imbedded  themselves  in  the  ground- 
work of  her  mind. 

But  Graham  was  not  at  this  time  disposed  to  judge  the  poor 
Venosta  kindly  or  fairly.  Isaura  had  taken  high  rank  in  his 
thoughts.  He  felt  an  impatient  resentment,  mingled  with  anx- 
iety and  compassionate  tenderness,  at  a  companionship  which 
seemed  to  him  derogatory  to  the  position  he  would  have  as- 
signed to  a  creature  so  gifted,  and  unsafe  as  a  guide  amidst  the 
perils  and  trials  to  which  the  youth,  the  beauty,  and  the  des- 
tined profession  of  Isaura  were  exposed.  Like  most  English- 
men— especially  Englishmen  wise  in  the  knowledge  of  life — he 
held  in  fastidious  regard  the  proprieties  and  conventions  by 
which  the  dignity  of  woman  is  fenced  round  ;  and  of  those  pro- 
prieties and  conventions  the  Venosta  naturally  appeared  to  him 
a  very  unsatisfactory  guardian  and  representative. 

Happily  unconscious  of  those  hostile  prepossessions,  the 
elder  Signora  chatted  on  very  gayly  to  the  visitor.  She  was  in 
excellent  spirits.  People  had  been  very  civil  to  her  both  at 
Colonel  Morley's  and  M.  Louvier's.  The  American  Minister 
had  praised  the  scarlet  jacket.  She  was  convinced  she  had 
made  a  sensation  two  nights  running.  When  the  a77tour-proprt 
is  pleased,  the  tongue  is  freed. 

The  Venosta  ran  on  in  praise  of  Paris  and  the  Parisians,  of 
Louvier  and  his  soiree  and  the  pistachio  ice,  of  the  Americans 
and  a  certain  a-eme  de  marascliino  which  she  hoped  the  Signor 
Inglese  had  not  failed  to  taste — the  creme  de  maraschino  led  her 
thoughts  back  to  Italy.  Then  she  grew  mournful — how  she 
missed  the  native  beau  del !  Paris  was  pleasant,  but  how  ab- 
surd to  call  it  "  le  Paradis  des  Femmes  " — as  if  les  Fcmmes  could 
find  Paradise  in  a  brouillard I 

"  But,"  she  exclaimed,  with  vivacity  of  voice  and  gesticula- 
tion, "  the  Signor  does  not  come  to  hear  the  parrot  talk.  He 
is  engaged  to  come  that  he  may  hear  the  nightingale  sing.  A 
drop  of  honey  attracts  the  fly  more  than  a  bottle  of  vinegar." 

Graham  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  adage.  "I  submit," 
said  he,  "to  your  comparison  as  regards  myself ;  but  certainly 
anything  less  like  a  bottle  of  vinegar  than  your  amiable  con- 


,,o  THE  PARISIANS. 

versation  I  cannot  well  conceive.  However,  the  metaphoT 
aj^art,  I  scarcely  know  how  I  dare  ask  Mademoiselle  to  sing 
after  the  confession  I  made  to  her  last  night." 

"  What  confession  ?  "  asked  the  Venosta. 

"  That  I  know  nothing  of  music,  and  doubt  if  I  can  honest- 
ly say  that  I  am  fond  of  it." 

"  Not  fond  of  music  !  Impossible  !  You  slander  yourself. 
He  who  loves  not  music  would  have  a  dull  time  of  it  in  heaven. 
But  you  are  English,  and  perhaps  have  only  heard  the  music 
of  your  own  country.  Bad,  very  bad — a  heretic's  music !  Now 
listen." 

Seating  herself  at  the  piano,  she  began  an  air  from  the 
"  Lucia,''  crying  out  to  Isaura  to  come  and  sing  to  her  accom- 
paniment. 

"  Do  you  really  wish  it  ?  "  asked  Isaura  of  Graham,  fixing 
on  him  questioning  timid  eyes. 

"  I  cannot  say  how  much  I  wish  to  hear  you." 

Isaura  morved  to  the  instrument,  and  Graham  stood  behind 
her.  Perhaps  he  felt  that  he  should  judge  more  impartially  of 
her  voice  if  not  subjected  to  the  charm  of  her  face. 

But  the  first  note  of  the  voice  held  him  spellbound  :  in  it- 
self, the  organ  was  of  the  rarest  order,  mellow  and  rich,  but  so 
soft  that  its  power  was  lost  in  its  sweetness,  and  so  exquisitely 
fresh  in  every  note. 

But  the  singer's  charm  was  less  in  voice  than  in  feeling — 
she  conveyed  to  the  listener  so  much  more  than  was  said  by 
the  words,  or  even  implied  by  the  music.  Her  song  in  this 
caught  the  art  of  the  painter  who  impresses  the  mind  with  the 
consciousness  of  a  something  which  the  eye  cannot  detect  on 
the  canvas. 

She  seemed  to  breathe  out  from  the  depths  of  her  heart  the 
intense  pathos  of  the  original  romance,  so  far  exceeding  that 
of  the  opera — the  human  tenderness,  the  mystic  terror  of  a 
tragic  love-tale  more  solemn  in  its  sweetness  than  that  of  Ve- 
rona. 

When  her  voice  died  away,  no  applause  came — not  even  a 
murmur.  Fsaura  bashfully  turned  round  to  steal  a  glance  at 
her  silent  listener,  and  beheld  moistened  eyes  and  quivering 
lips.  At  that  moment  she  was  reconciled  to  her  art.  Graham 
rose  abruptly  and  walked  to  the  window. 

"  Do  you  doubt  now  if  you  are  fond  of  music  ?  "  cried  the 
Venosta. 

"  This  is  more  than  music,"  answered  Graham,  still  with 


THE  PARISIANS.  i  _.  i 

averted  face.  Then,  after  a  short  pause,  he  approached  Isaura, 
and  said,  with  a  melancholy  half-smile — 

"  I  do  not  think,  Mademoiselle,  that  1  could  dare  to  hear 
you  often  ;  it  would  take  me  too  far  from  the  hard  real  world ; 
and  he  who  would  not  be  left  behindhand  on  the  road  that 
he  nmst  journey  cannot  indulge  frequent  excursions  into  fairy- 
land." 

"  Yet,"  said  Isaura,  in  a  tone  yet  sadder,  "  I  was  told  in  my 
childhood,  by  one  whose  genius  gives  authority  to  her  words, 
that  beside  the  real  world  lies  the  ideal.  The  real  world  then 
seemed  rough  to  me.  '  Escape,'  said  my  counsellor,  '  is  granted 
from  that  stony  thoroughfare  into  the  fields  beyond  its  formal 
hedgerows.  The  ideal  world  has  its  sorrows,  but  it  never  admits 
despair.'  That  counsel  then,  methought,  decided  my  choice  of 
life.     I  know  not  now  if  it  has  done  so." 

"  Fate,"  answered  Graham,  slowly  and  thoughtfully — "  Fate, 
which  is  not  the  ruler  but  the  servant  of  Providence,  decides 
our  choice  of  life,  and  rarely  from  outward  circumstances. 
Usually  the  motive  power  is  within.  We  apply  the  word  genius 
to  the  minds  of  the  gifted  few  ;  but  in  all  of  us  there  is  a  genius 
that  is  inborn,  a  pervading  something  which  distinguishes  our 
very  identity,  and  dictates  to  the  conscience  that  which  we  are 
best  fitted  to  do  and  to  be.  In  so  dictating  it  compels  our 
choice  of  life;  or  if  we  resist  the  dictate,  we  find  at  the  close 
that  we  have  gone  astray.  My  choice  of  life  thus  compelled  is 
on  the  stony  thoroughfare — yours  in  the  green  fields." 

As  he  thus  said,  his  face  became  clouded  and  mournful. 

The  Venosta,  quickly  tired  of  a  conversation  in  which  she 
had  no  part,  and  having  various  little  household  matters  to 
attend  to,  had  during  this  dialogue  slipped  unobserved  from 
the  room ;  yet  neither  Isaura  nor  Graham  felt  the  sudden  con- 
sciousness that  they  were  alone  which  belongs  to  lovers. 

"  Why,"  asked  Isaura,  with  that  magic  smile  reflected  in 
countless  dimples  which,  even  when  her  words  were  those  of 
a  man's  reasoning,  made  them  seem  gentle  with  a  woman's 
sentiment — "  why  must  your  road  through  the  world  be  so  ex- 
clusively the  stony  one  ?  It  is  not  from  necessity — it  cannot 
be  from  taste.  And  whatever  definition  you  give  to  genius, 
surely  it  is  not  your  own  inborn  genius  that  dictates  to  you  a 
constant  exclusive  adherence  to  the  commonplace  of  life." 

"  Ah,  Mademoiselle,  do  not  misrepresent  me.  I  did  not 
say  that  I  could  not  sometimes  quit  the  real  world  for  fairy-land 
— I  said  that  I  could  not  do  so  often.  My  vocation  is  not  that 
of  a  poet  or  artist." 


)> 


122  THE  PARISIANS. 

"It  is  that  of  an  orator,  I  know,"  said  Isaura,  kindling;— 
"  so  they  tell  me,  and  I  believe  them.  But  is  not  the  orator 
somewhat  akin  to  the  poet  ?     Is  not  oratory  an  art  ?" 

"  Let  us  dismiss  the  word  orator :  as  applied  to  English 
public  life,  it  is  a  very  deceptive  expression.  The  English- 
man who  wishes  to  influence  his  countrj-men  by  force  of  words 
spoken  must  mix  with  them  in  their  beaten  thoroughfare — must 
make  himself  master  of  their  practical  views  and  interests — 
must  be  conversant  with  their  prosaic  occupation  and  business 
— must  understand  how  to  adjust  their  loftiest  aspirations  to 
their  material  welfare — must  avoid,  as  the  fault  most  dangerous 
to  himself  and  to  others,  that  kind  of  eloquence  which  is  called 
orator}'  in  France,  and  which  has  helped  to  make  the  French 
the  worst  politicians  in  Europe.  Also,  Mademoiselle,  I  fear 
that  an  English  statesman  would  appear  to  you  a  very  dull 
orator." 

"  I  see  that  I  spoke  foolishly — yes,  you  show  me  that  the 
world  of  the  statesman  lies  apart  from  that  of  the  artist 
Yet " 

"  Yet  what  ?  " 

"  May  not  the  ambition  of  both  be  the  same  ?  " 

"  How  so  }  " 

"'i'o  refine  the  rude,  to  exalt  the  mean — to  identify  their 
own  fame  with  some  new  beauty,  some  new  glory,  added  to 
the  treasure-house  of  all." 

Graham  bowed  his  head  reverently,  and  then  raised  it  with 
the  flush  of  enthusiasm  on  his  cheek  and  brow. 

"  Oh,  Mademoiselle,"  he  exclaimed,  "  what  a  sure  guide 
and  vv'hat  a  noble   inspirer  to   a  true  Englishman's   ambition 

nature  has  fitted  you  to  be,   were  it  not "     He   paused 

abruptly. 

This  outburst  took  Isaura  utterly  by  surprise.  She  had 
been  accustomed  to  the  language  of  compliment  till  it  had 
begun  to  pall,  but  a  compliment  of  this  kind  was  the  first 
that  had  ever  reached  her  ear.  She  had  no  words  in  answer 
to  it ;  involuntarily  she  placed  her  hand  on  her  heart  as  if  to 
still  its  beatings.  I3ut  the  unfinished  exclamation,  "  Were  it 
not,"  troubled  her  more  than  the  preceding  words  had  flat- 
tered— and  mechanically  she  murmured,  "Were  it  not — 
what  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  answered  Graham,  affecting  a  tone  of  gayety,  "  I  felt 
too  ashamed  of  my  selfishness  as  man  to  finish  my  sentence." 

"Do  so,  or  I  shall  fancy  you  refrained  lest  you  might 
wound  me  as  woman." 


THE  PARISTAh^S.  123 

"  Not  so — on  the  contrary ;  had  I  gone  on  it  would  have 
been  to  say  that  a  woman  of  your  genius,  and  more  especially 
of  such  mastery  in  the  most  popular  and  fascinating  of  all 
arts,  could  not  be  contented  if  she  inspired  nobler  thoughts 
in  a  single  breast — she  must  belong  to  the  public,  or  rather 
the  public  must  belong  to  her  :  it  is  but  a  corner  of  her  heart 
that  an  individual  can  occupy,  and  even  that  individual  must 
merge  his  existence  in  hers — must  be  contented  to  reflect  a 
ray  of  the  light  she  sheds  on  admiring  thousands.  Who 
could  dare  to  say  to  you,  "  Renounce  your  career — confine 
genius,  your  art,  to  the  petty  circle  of  home  "  ?  To  an  actress — 
a  singer — with  whose  fame  the  world  rings,  home  would  be  a 
prison.     Pardon  me,  pardon " 

Isaura  had  turned  away  her  face  to  hide  tears  that  would 
force  their  way,  but  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a  child- 
like frankness,  and  said  softly,  "  I  am  not  offended."  Graham 
did  not  trust  himself  to  continue  the  same  strain  of  conversa- 
tion. Breaking  into  a  new  subject,  he  said,  after  a  constrained 
pause,  "Will  you  think  it  very  impertinent  in  so  new  an  ac- 
quaintance if  I  ask  how  it  is  that  you,  an  Italian,  know  our 
language  as  a  native  ?  and  is  it  by  Italian  teachers  that  you 
have  been  trained  to  think  and  to  feel  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Selby,  my  second  father,  was  an  Englishman,  and  did 
not  speak  any  other  language  with  comfort  to  himself.  He 
was  very  fond  of  me — and  had  he  been  really  my  father  I 
could  not  have  loved  him  more  :  we  were  constant  companions 
till— till  I  lost  him." 

"  And  no  mother  left  to  console  you."  Isaura  shook  her 
head  mournfully,  and  the  Venosta  here  re-entered. 

Graham  felt  conscious  that  he  had  already  stayed  too  long, 
and  took  leave. 

They  knew  that  they  were  to  meet  that  evening  at  the 
Savarins'. 

Graham  did  not  feel  unmixed  pleasure  at  that  thought:  the 
more  he  knew  of  Isaura,  the  more  he  felt  self-reproach  that  he 
had  allowed  himself  to  know  her  at  all. 

But  after  he  had  left,  Isaura  sang  low  to  herself  the  song 
which  had  so  affected  her  listener  ;  then  she  fell  into  abstracted 
reverie,  but  she  felt  a  strange  and  new  sort  of  happiness.  In 
dressing  for  M.  Savarin's  dinner,  and  twining  the  classic  ivy 
wreath  into  her  dark  locks,  her  Italian  servant  exclaimed, 
"  How  beautiful  the  Signorina  looks  to-night  1" 


,  _,  ^  THE  PA  R  IS  JANS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

M.  Savarin  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  of  that  galaxy 
of  literary  men  which  shed  lustre  on  the  reign  of  Louis 
Philippe. 

His  was  an  intellect  peculiarly  French  in  its  lightness  and 
grace.  Neither  England  nor  Germany  nor  America  has  pro- 
duced any  resemblance  to  it.  Ireland  has,  in  Thomas  Moore  ; 
but  then  in  Irish  genius  there  is  so  much  that  is  French. 

M.  Savarin  was  free  from  the  ostentatious  extravagance 
which  had  come  into  vogue  with  the  Empire.  His  house  and 
establishment  were  modestly  maintained  within  the  limit  of  an 
income  chiefly,  perhaps  entirely,  derived  from  literary  profits. 

Though  he  gave  frequent  dinners,  it  was  but  to  few  at  a 
time,  and  without  show  or  pretense.  Yet  the  dinners,  though 
simple,  were  perfect  of  their  kind  ;  and  the  host  so  contrived 
to  infuse  his  own  playful  gayety  into  the  temper  of  his  guests 
that  the  feasts  at  his  house  were  considered  the  pleasantest  at 
Paris.  On  this  occasion  the  party  extended  to  ten,  the  largest 
number  his  table  admitted. 

All  the  French  guests  belonged  to  the  Liberal  party,  though 
in  changing  tints  of  the  tricolor.  I'lace  aux  dames,  first  to 
be  named  were  the  Countess  de  Craon  and  Madame  Vertot — 
both  without  husbands.  The  Countess  had  buried  the  Count 
Madame  Vertot  had  separated  from  Monsieur.  The  Countess 
was  very  handsome,  but  she  was  sixty.  Madame  Vertot  was 
twenty  years  younger,  but  she  was  very  plain.  She  had 
quarrelled  with  the  distinguished  author  for  whose  sake  she 
had  separated  from  Monsieur,  and  no  man  had  since  presumed 
to  think  that  he  could  console  a  lady  so  plain  for  the  loss  of 
an  author  so  distinguished. 

Both  these  ladies  were  very  clever.  The  Countess  had 
written  lyrical  poems,  entitled  "  Cries  of  Liberty,"  and  a  drama 
of  which  Danton  was  the  hero,  and  the  moral  too  revolutionary 
for  admission  to  the  stage  ;  but  at  heart  the  Countess  was  not 
at  all  a  revolutionist — the  last  person  in  the  world  to  do  or 
desire  anything  that  could  bring  a  washerwoman  an  inch 
nearer  to  a  countess.  She  was  one  of  those  persons  who  play 
with  fire  in  order  to  appear  enlightened. 

Madame  Vertot  was  of  severer  mould.      She  had  knelt  at 


TlfR  FAKISJANS.  125 

ihe  feet  of  M.  Thiers,  and  went  into  the  historico-polilical  line. 
She  had  written  a  remarkable  book  upon  the  modern  Carthage 
(meaning  England),  and  more  recently  a  work  that  had  ex- 
cited much  attention  upon  the  Balance  of  Power,  in  which 
she  proved  it  to  be  the  interest  of  civilization  and  the  necessity 
of  Europe  that  Belgium  should  be  added  to  France,  and  Prussia 
circumscribed  to  the  bounds  of  its  original  margravate.  She 
showed  how  easily  these  two  objects  could  have  been  effected 
by  a  constitutional  monarch  instead  of  an  egotistical  Emperor. 
Madame  Vertot  was  a  decided  Orleanist. 

Both  these  ladies  condescended  to  put  aside  authorship  in 
general  society.  Next  among  our  guests  let  me  place  the 
Count  de  Passy  and  Madame  son  epoiise :  the  Count  was 
seventy-one,  and,  it  is  needless  to  add,  a  type  of  Frenchman 
rapidly  vanishing,  and  not  likely  to  find  itself  renewed.  How 
shall  I  describe  him  so  as  to  make  my  English  reader  under- 
stand ?  Let  me  try  by  analogy.  Suppose  a  man  of  great  birth 
and  fortune,  who  in  his  youth  has  been  an  enthusiastic  friend 
of  Lord  Byron  and  a  jocund  companion  of  George  IV. — who 
had  in  him  an  immense  degree  of  lofty  romantic  sentiment 
with  an  equal  degree  of  well-bred  worldly  cynicism,  but  who 
on  account  of  that  admixture,  which  is  rare,  kept  a  high  rank 
in  either  of  the  two  societies  into  which,  speaking  broadly, 
civilized  life  divides  itself — the  romantic  and  the  cynical.  The 
Count  de  Passy  had  been  the  most  ardent  among  the  young 
disciples  of  Chateaubriand — the  most  brilliant  among  the  young 
courtiers  of  Charles  X.  Need  I  add  that  he  had  been  a  terrible 
lady-killer  ? 

But  in  spite  of  his  admiration  of  Chateaubriand  and  his 
allegiance  to  Charles  X.,  the  Count  had  been  always  true  to 
those  caprices  of  the  French  noblesse  from  which  he  descended 
— caprices  which  destroyed  them  in  the  old  Revolution — ca- 
prices belonging  to  the  splendid  ignorance  of  their  nation  in 
general,  and  their  order  in  particular.  Speaking  without  re- 
gard to  partial  exceptions,  the  Yr&nch. gentilhomme  is  essentially 
a  Parisian ;  a  Parisian  is  essentially  impressionable  to  the 
impulse  or  fashion  of  the  moment.  It  is  a  la  mode  for  the 
moment  to  be  Liberal  or  anti-Liberal  ?  Parisians  embrace  and 
kiss  each  other,  and  swear  through  life  and  death  to  adhere 
forever  to  the  mode  of  the  moment.  The  Three  Days  were  the 
mode  of  the  moment — the  Count  de  Passy  became  an  enthu' 
siastic  Orleanist.  Louis  Philippe  was  very  gracious  to  him. 
He  was  decorated — he  was  named  prefet  of  his  department — • 
he  was  created  senator — he  was  about  to  be  sent  Minister  to  a 


fc> 


,20  rilE  PARISIANS. 

German  Coiirt  when  Louis  Philippe  fell.  The  Republic  was 
proclaimed  The  Count  caught  the  popular  contagion,  and, 
after  exchanging  tears  and  kisses  with  patriots  whom  a  week 
before  he  had  called  canaille,  he  swore  eternal  fidelity  to  ihe 
Republic.  The  fashion  of  the  inoment  suddenly  became 
Napoleonic,  and  with  the  coup  d'etat  the  Republic  was  meta- 
morphosed into  an  Empire.  The  Count  wept  on  the  bosoms 
of  all  the  Vicilles  Moustaches  he  could  find,  and  rejoiced  that 
the  sun  of  Austerlitz  had  re-arisen.  But  after  the  affair  of 
-Mexico  the  sun  of  Austerlitz  waxed  very  sickly.  Imperialism 
was  fast  going  out  of  fashion.  The  Count  transferred  his 
affection  to  Jules  Favre,  and  joined  the  ranks  of  the  advanced 
Liberals.  During  all  these  political  changes  the  Count  had 
remained  very  much  the  same  man  in  private  life  ;  agreeable, 
good-natured,  witty,  and,  above  all,  a  devotee  of  tiie  fair  sex. 
When  he  had  reached  the  age  of  sixty-eight  he  was  still  fori 
bel  honnne — unmarried,  with  a  grand  presence  and  charming 
manner.  At  that  age  he  said,  "  ye  me  range,"  and  married  a 
young  lady  of  eighteen.  She  adored  her  husband,  and  was 
wildly  jealous  of  him  ;  while  the  Count  did  not  seem  at  all 
jealous  of  her,  and  submitted  to  her  adoration  with  a  gentle 
shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

The  three  other  guests  who,  with  Graham  and  the  two  Italian 
ladies,  made  up  the  complement  of  ten,  were  the  German 
Count  von  Rudesheim,  whom  Vane  had  met  at  M.  Louvier's,  a 
c6lebrated  French  physician  named  Bacourt,  and  a  young 
author  whom  Savarin  had  admitted  into  his  clique  and  declared 
to  be  of  rare  promise.  This  author,  whose  real  name  was 
Giistave  Rameau,  but  who,  to  prove,  I  suppose,  the  sincerity 
of  that  scorn  for  ancestry  which  he  professed,  published  his 
verses  under  the  patrician  designation  of  Alphouse  de  Valcour, 
was  about  twenty-four,  and  might  have  passed  at  the  first  glance 
for  younger;  but,  looking  at  him  closely,  tlie  signs  of  old  age 
were  already  stamped  on  his  visage. 

He  was  undersized,  and  of  a  feeble,  slender  frame.  In  the 
eyes  of  women  and  artists  the  defects  of  his  frame  were  re- 
deemed by  the  extraordinary  beauty  of  the  face.  His  black 
hair,  carefully  parted  in  the  centre,  and  worn  long  and  flowing, 
contrasted  the  whiteness  of  a  high  though  narrow  forehead, 
and  the  delicate  pallor  of  his  cheeks.  His  features  were  very 
regular,  his  eyes  singularly  bright ;  but  the  expression  of  the 
face  spoke  of  fatigue  and  exhaustion — the  sificy  .ocks  were 
already  thin,  and  interspersed  with  threads  of  silver — the  bright 
eyes  shone  out  from  sunken  orbits — the  lines  round  the  mouth 


THE  PARISIANS. 


127 


were  marked  as  they  are  in  the  middle  age  of  cTie  who  has 
lived  too  fast. 

It  was  a  countenance  that  might  have  excited  a  compas- 
sionate and  tender  interest,  but  for  something  arrogant  and 
supercilious  in  the  expression — something  that  demanded  not 
tender  pity  but  enthusiastic  admiration.  Yet  that  expression 
was  displeasing  rather  to  men  than  to  women  ;  and  one  cuuld 
well  conceive  that  among  the  latter  the  enthusiastic  admiration 
it  challenged  would  be  largely  conceded. 

The  conversation  at  dinner  was  in  complete  contrast  to  that 
at  the  American's  the  day  before.  There  the  talk,  though 
animated,  had  been  chiefly  earnest  and  serious — here  it  was  all 
touch  and  go,  sally  and  repartee.  The  subjects  were  the  light 
on-dits  and  lively  anecdotes  of  the  day,  not  free  from  literature 
and  politics,  but  both  treated  as  matters  of  persiflage,  hovered 
round  with  a  jest,  and  quitted  with  an  epigram.  The  two 
French  lady  authors,  the  Count  de  Passy,  the  physician,  and 
the  host,  far  outshone  all  the  other  guests.  Now  and  then, 
however,  the  German  Count  struck  in  with  an  ironical  remark 
condensing  a  great  deal  of  grave  wisdom,  and  the  young  author 
with  ruder  and  more  biting  sarcasm.  If  the  sarcasm  told,  he 
showed  his  triumph  by  a  low-pitched  laugh ;  if  it  failed, 
he  evinced  his  displeasure  by  a  contemptuous  sneer  or  a  grim 
scowl. 

Isaura  and  Graham  were  not  seated  near  each  other,  and 
were  for  the  most  part  contented  to  be  listeners. 

On  adjourning  to  the  salon  after  dinner,  Graham,  however, 
was  approaching  the  chair  in  which  Isaura  had  placed  herself, 
when  the  young  author,  forestalling  him,  dropped  into  the  seat 
next  to  her,  and  began  a  conversation  in  a  voice  so  low  that  it 
might  have  passed  for  a  whisper.  The  Englishman  drew  back 
and  observed  them.  He  soon  perceived,  with  a  pang  of  jealousy 
Tvot  unmingled  with  scorn,  that  the  author's  talk  appeared  to 
mterest  Isaura.  She  listened  with  evident  attention  ;  and  when 
she  spoke  in  return,  though  Graharft  did  not  hear  her  words,  he 
could  observe  on  her  expressive  countenance  an  inci  eased 
gentleness  of  aspect, 

"  I  hope,"  said  the  physician,  joining  Graham,  as  most  of 
the  other  guests  gathered  around  Savarin,  who  was  iii  his  live- 
liest vein  of  anecdote  and  wit — "  I  hope  that  the  fair  Italian 
will  not  allow  that  ink-bottle  imp  to  persuade  her  that  she  has 
fallen  in  love  with  him." 

"  Do  young  ladies  generally  find  him  so  seductive  ?  "  asked 
Graham,  with  a  forced  smile. 


,28  THE  PAKISIANS. 

"  Probably  enough.     He  has  the  reputation  of  being  verj- 
clever  and  vcr}-  wicked,  and  that  is  a  sort  of  character  which 
has  the  serpent's  fascination  for  the  daughter  of  Eve." 
"  Is  the  reputation  merited  ?  " 

"  As  to  the  cleverness,  I  am  not  a  fair  judge.     I  dislike  that 
sort  of  writing  which  is  neither  manlike  nor  womanlike,  and   in 
which  young   Rameau  excels.     He  has  the  knack  of  finding 
very  exaggerated  phrases  by  which  to  express  commonplace 
thoughts.     He  writes  verses  about   love    in   words    so   stormy 
that  you  might  fancy  that  Jove   was  descending  upon  Semele. 
But  when  you  examine  his  words,  as   a  sober  pathologist  like 
myself  is  disposed  to  do,  your  fear  for  the  peace  of  households 
vanishes — they  are  '  Vox  et  pr(Bterea  nihir — no  man  really  in 
love  would  use  them.     He  writes  prose  about  the  wrongs  of  hu- 
manity.    You  feel  for  humanity.     You  say,  '  Grant  the  wrongs, 
now  for  the   remedy,'  and   you   find   nothing   but   balderdash. 
Still  I  am  bound  to  say  that  both  in  verses  and  prose   Gustave 
Rameau  is  in  unison  with  a  corrupt  taste  of  the  day,  and  there- 
fore he  is  coming  into  vogue.     So  much  as  to   his  writings : 
as  to  his  wickedness,  you  have  only  to  look  at  him  to  feel  sure 
that  he  is  not  a  hundredth  part  so  wicked  as  he  wishes  to  seem. 
In  a  word,  then,    Mons.  Gustave    Rameau   is    a   type   of   that 
somewhat  numerous  class  among  the  youth  of  Paris,  which  I 
call  '  the  Lost  Tribe  of  Absinthe.'  There    is  a  set  of  men  who 
begin  to  live  full  gallop  while  they  are  still  boys.     As  a  general 
rule,  they  are  originally  of  the  sickly  frames  which  can  scarcely 
even  trot,  much  less  gallop,  without  the  spur  of  stimulants,  and 
no  stimulant  so  fascinates  their  peculiar   nervous    system  as 
absinthe.     The  number  of  patients  in  this  set  who  at  the  age  of 
thirty  are  more  worn   out  than  septuagenarians,   increases  so 
rapidly  as  to  make  one  dread  to  think  what  will  be  the  next  race 
of  Frenchman.     To  the  predilection  for  absinthe  young  Rameau 
and  the  writers  of  his  set  add  the  imitation  of  Heine,  after,  in- 
deed, the  manner  of  caricaturists,  who  effect  a  likeness   strik- 
ing in    proportion  as  it  is  ugl^'.     It  is   not   easy   to   imitate  the 
pathos  and  the  wit  of  Heine  but  it  is  easy  to  imitate  his  defi- 
ance of  the  Deity,  his  mockery  of  right  and  wrong,  his  relent.ess 
war  on  that  heroic  standard   of  thought  and   action    which  the 
writers  who  exalt  their  nation  intuitively  preserve.     Rameau  can- 
not be  a  Heine,  but  he  can  be  to  Heine  what  a  misshapen  snarl- 
ing dwarf  is  to  a  mangled  blaspheming  Titan.     Yet  he  interests 
the  women  in  general,  and   he  evidently  interests  the  fair  Sig- 
norina  In  especial." 


THE  PARTSTANS.  129 

Just  as  Bacourt  finished  that  last  sentence,  Isaura  lifted  the 
head  which  had  hitherto  bent  in  an  earnest  listening  attitude 
that  seemed  to  justify  the  Doctor's  remarks,  and  looked  round. 
Her  eyes  met  Graham's  with  the  fearless  candor  which  made 
half  the  charm  of  their  bright  3-et  soft  intelligence.  But  she 
dropped  them  suddenly  with  a  half-start  and  a  change  of  color, 
for  the  expression  of  Graham's  face  was  unlike  that  which  she 
had  hitlierto  seen  on  it — it  was  hard,  stern,  somewhat  disdain- 
ful. A  minute  or  so  afterwards  she  rose,  and,  in  passing  across 
the  room  towards  the  group  round  the  host,  paused  at  a  table 
covered  with  books  and  prints,  near  to  which  Graham  was 
standing — alone.  The  Doctor  had  departed  in  company  with 
the  German  Count. 

Isaura  took  up  one  of  the  prints. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  Sorrento,  my  Sorrento.  Have  you 
ever  visited  Sorrento,  Mr.  Vane  "i  " 

Her  question  and  her  movement  were  evidently  in  concilia- 
tion. Was  the  conciliation  prompted  by  coquetry,  or  by  a  sen- 
timent more  innocent  and  artless  ? 

Graham  doubted,  and  replied  coldly,  as  he  bent  over  the 
print — 

"  I  once  stayed  there  a  few  days  ;  but  my  recollection  of  it 
is  not  sufficiently  lively  to  enable  me  to  recognize  its  features 
in  this  design." 

"  That  is  the  house,  at  least  so  they  say,  of  Tasso's  father ; 
of  course  you  visited  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  hotel  in  my  time  ;  I  lodged  there." 

"  And  I  too.  There  I  first  read  the  '  Gerusalemme,'"  The 
last  words  were  said  in  Italian,  with  a  low  measured  tone,  in- 
wardly and  dreamily. 

A  somewhat  sharp  and  incisive  voice  speaking  in  French 
here  struck  in  and  prevented  Graham's  rejoinder  :  "  Quel  Jolt 
dessin  !     What  is  it.  Mademoiselle  ?  " 

Graham  recoiled  :  the  speaker  was  Gustave  Rameau,  who 
had,  unobserved,  first  watched  Isaura,  then  rejoined  her  side. 

"  A  view  of  Sorrento,  Monsieur,  but  it  does  not  do  justice 
to  the  place.  I  was  pointing  out  the  house  which  belonged  to 
Tasso's  father." 

"  Tasso  !     Hein  !  and  which  is  the  fair  Eleonora's  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,"  answered  Isaura,  rather  startled  at  that  ques- 
tion from  a  professed  homme  de  lettres,  "  Eleonora  did  not  live 
at  Sorrento." 

'■'' I'ant pis  pour  Sorrente,^''  said  the  homme  de  lettres,   care 


i-^O  ^^^-^  FARISIAA'S. 

lessly.     "  No  one  would  care   for  Tasso   if   it   were  not  for 
Eleonora." 

"  I  should  rather  have  thought,"  said  Graham,  "  that  no 
one  would  have  cared  for  Eleonora  if  it  were  not  for  Tasso." 

Rameau  glanced  at  the  Englishinan  superciliously. 
"  Pardon,  Alonsieiir — in  every  age  a  love-story  keeps  its  ."n- 
teresl ;  but  who  cares  nowadays  for  le  cliquant  du  Tasse  ?  " 

"  Le  cliquant  du  Tasse  /  "  exclaimed  Isaura,  indignantly. 

"  The  expression  is  Boileau's,  Mademoiselle,  in  ridicule  of 
the  *  Sot  de  qualite,^  who  prefers 

'  Le  clinquant  du  Tasse  h  tout  For  de  Virgile, ' 

But  for  my  part  I  have  as  httle  faith  in  the  last  as  the  first. 

"  I  do  not  know  Latin,  and  have  therefore  not  read  Virgil," 
said  Isaura. 

"Possibly,"  remarked  Graham,  "  Monsieur  does  not  know 
Italian,  and  has  therefore  not  read  Tasso." 

"  If  that  be  meant  in  sarcasm,"  retorted  Rameau,  "  I  con- 
strue it  as  a  compliment.     A  Frenchman  who  is  contented  to 
study  the  masterpieces  of  modern  literature  need  learn  no  Ian 
guage  and  read  no  authors  but  his  own." 

Isaura  laughed  her  pleasant  silvery  laugh.  "  I  should  admire 
the  frankness  of  that  boast,  Monsieur,  if  in  our  talk  just  now 
you  had  not  spoken  as  contempuoiisly  of  what  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  consider  French  masterpieces  as  you  have  done  of 
Virgil  and  Tasso." 

"  Ah,  Mademoiselle,  it  is  not  my  fault  if  you  have  had 
teachers  of  taste  so  rococo  as  to  bid  you  find  masterpieces  in 
the  tiresome  stilted  tragedies  of  Corneille  and  Racine — poetry 
of  a  court,  not  of  a  people.  One  simple  novel,  one  simple 
stanza,  that  probes  the  hidden  recesses  of  the  human  heart, 
reveals  the  sores  of  this  wretched  social  state,  denounces  the 
evils  of  superstition,  kingcraft,  and  priestcraft,  is  worth  a  library 
of  the  rubbish  which  pedagogues  call  '  the  classics.'  We  agree, 
at  least,  in  one  thing,  Mademoiselle  ;  we  both  do  homage  to 
the  genius  of  your  friend  Madame  de  Grantmesnil." 

"  Your  friend,  Signorina !  "  cried  Graham,  incredulously  ; 
*  is  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  your  friend  ? " 

"  The  dearest  I  have  in  the  world." 

Graham's  face  (.larkened  ;  he  turned  away  in  silence  and  in 
another  minute  vanished  from  the  room,  persuading  himself 
that  he  fell  not  one  pang  of  jealousy  in  leaving  Gustave  Rameau 


THE  PARISIANS.  13 1 

by  the  side  of  Isaura.     "  Her  dearest  friend  Madame  de  Grant 
mesnil  !  "  he  muttered, 

A  word  now  on  Isaura's  chief  correspondent.  Madame  de 
Grantmesnil  was  a  woman  of  noble  birth  and  ample  fortune. 
She  had  separated  from  her  husband  in  the  second  year  after 
marriage.  She  was  a  singularly  eloquent  writer,  surpassed 
among  contemporaries  of  her  sex  in  popularity  and  renown 
only  by  George  Sand. 

At  least  as  fearless  as  that  great  novelist  in  the  frank  expo- 
sition of  her  views,  she  had  commenced  her  career  in  letters 
by  a  work  of  astonishing  power  and  pathos,  directed  against 
the   institution   of  marriage   as   regulated  in  Roman  Catholic 
communities.     I  do  not  know   that   it    said  more  on  this  deli 
cate  subject  than  the  English  Milton  has   said  :  but  then  Mil- 
ton did  not  write  for  a  Roman  Catholic  community,  nor  adopt 
a   style    likely   to   attract   the   working-classes.      Madame  de 
Grantmesnil's  first  book  was  deemed  an  attack  on  the  religion 
of   the    country,    and    captivated    those    among    the     working 
classes  who  had  already  abjured  that  religion.     This  work  was 
followed  up  by  others  more  or  less    in   defiance  of  "  received 
opinions;  "  some  with  political,  some  with  social  revolutionary 
aim  and  tendency,  but  alwa3's  with   a  singular  purity  of  style. 
Search  all  her  books,  and,  however  you  might  revolt  from  her 
doctrine,  you  could   not  find    a    hazardous   expression.       The 
novels  of  English  young  ladies   are    naughty   in   comparison. 
Of  late  years,  whatever  might  be   hard   or  audacious  in  her 
political  or  social  doctrines  softened    itself   into  charm  amid 
the  golden  haze  of  romance.     Her  writings  had  grown  more 
and  more  purely  artistic — poetizing  what  is  good  and  beautiful 
in  the  realities  of  life,  rather  than  creating  a  false  ideal  out 
of  what  is  vicious  and  deformed.      Such  a  woman,  separated 
young  from  her   husband,  could  not   enunciate   such  opinions 
and  lead  a  life  so  independent   and  uncontrolled    as    Madame 
de  Grantmesnil   had   done,  without  scandal,  without  calumny. 
Nothing,  however,  in  her  actual  life  had  ever  been  so  proved 
against  her  as  to  lower  the  high  position  she  occupied  in  right 
of  birth,  fortune,  renown.     Wherever  she  went  she  was  fetee — • 
as  in  England  foreign  princes,  and  in  America  foreign  authors, 
2iXQ.Jctee.     Those  who  knew  her  well  concurred  in  praise  of 
her  lofty,  generous,  lovable  qualities.     Madame  de  Grantmesnil 
had  known  Mr.  Selby  ;  and  when,  at  his  death,  Isaura,  in  the 
innocent  age  between  childhood  and  youth,  had  been  left  the 
most  sorrowful  and  most  lonely  creature  on   the  face  of  the 
earth,  this  famous  woman,  worshipped  by  the  rich  for  her  in* 


J 32  THE  PARISIANS. 

tellect,  adored  by  the  poor  for  her  beneficence,  came  to  tlie 
orphan's  friendless  side,  breathing  love  once  more  into  her 
])ining  heart,  and  waking  for  the  first  time  the  desires  of 
genius,  the  aspirations  of  art,  in  the  dim  self-consciousness  of 
a  soul  between  sleep  and  waking. 

But,  my  dear  Englishman,  put  yourself  in  Graham's  place, 
and  suppose  that  you  were  beginning  to  fall  in  love  with  a  girl 
whom  for  many  good  reasons  you  ought  not  to  marry;  suppose 
that  in  the  same  hour  in  which  you  were  angrily  conscious  of 
jealousy  on  account  of  a  man  whom  it  wounds  your  self-esteem 
to  considei  a  rival,  the  girl  tells  you  that  her  dearest  friend  is 
a  woman  who  is  famed  for  her  hostility  to  the  institution  of 
marriage  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 


On  the  same  day  in  which  Graham  dined  with  the  Savarins, 
M.  Eouvier  assembled  round  his  table  the  elite  of  the  young 
i*arisians  who  constituted  the  oligarchy  of  fashion,  to  meet 
whom  he  had  invited  his  new  friend  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant. 
Most  of  them  belonged  to  the  Legitimist  party — the  noblesse  oi 
the  faubourg ;  those  who  did  not,  belonged  to  no  political 
])arty  at  alj, — indifferent  to  the  cares  of  mortal  states  as  the 
gods  of  Epicurus.  Foremost  among  this  jeunesse  doree  were 
Alain's  kinsmen,  Raoul  and  Enguerrand  de  Vandemar.  To 
these  Louvier  introduced  him  with  a  burly  parental  bonhomie^  as 
if  he  were  the  head  of  the  family.  "  I  need  not  bid  you,  young 
folks,  to  make  friends  with  each  other.  A  Vandemar  and  a 
Kochebriani  are  not  made  friends — they  are  born  friends."'  So 
saying,  he  turned  to  his  other  guests. 

Almost  in  an  instant  Alain  felt  his  constraint  melt  away  in 
the  coidial  warmth  with  which  his  cousins  greeted  him. 

Tiiese  young  men  had  a  striking  family  likeness  to  each 
other,  and  yet  in  feature,  coloring,  and  expression,  in  all  save 
that  strange  family  likeness,  they  were  contrasts. 

Raoul  was  tall,  and,  though  inclined  to  be  slender,  with 
sufficient  breadth  of  slunilder  to  indicate  no  inconsiderable 
strengtii  of  frame.  His  hair  worn  short,  and  his  silky  beard 
worn   long,  were    dark,  so  were  his    eyes,  shaded   by    curved 


THE  PARrsrAsrs.  T^3 

drooping  lashes  ;  his  complexion  was  pale,  but  clear  and  healtli- 
ful.  In  repose  the.  expression  of  his  face  was  that  of  a  some- 
what melancholy  indolence,  but  in  speaking  it  became  singu- 
larly sweet,  with  a  smile  of  the  exquisite  urbanity  which  no 
artificial  politeness  can  bestow ;  it  must  emanate  from  that 
native  high  breeding  which  has  its  source  in  goodness,  of  heart. 

Enguerrand  was  fair,  with  curly  locks  of  a  golden  chestnut. 
He  wore  no  beard,  only  a  small  moustache  rather  darker  than 
his  hair.  His  complexion  might  in  itself  be  called  effeminate, 
its  bloom  was  so  fresh  and  delicate  ;  but  there  was  so  much  o/ 
boldness  and  energy  in  the  play  of  his  countenance,  the  hardy 
outline  of  the  lips,  and  the  open  breadth  of  the  forehead,  that 
"  effeminate"  was  an  epithet  no  one  ever  assigned  to  his  aspect. 
He  was  somewhat  under  the  middle  height,  but  beautifully  pro- 
portioned, carried  himself  well,  and  somehow  or  other  did  not 
look  short  even  by  the  side  of  tall  men.  Altogether  he  seemed 
formed  to  be  a  mother's  darling,  and  spoiled  by  women,  yet  to 
hold  his  own  among  men  with  a  strength  of  will  more  evident 
in  his  look  and  his  bearing  than  it  was  in  those  of  his  graver 
and  statelier  brother. 

Both  were  considered  by  their  young  co-equals  models  in 
dress,  but  in  Raoul  there  was  no  sign  that  care  or  thought  upon 
dress  had  been  bestowed  ;  the  simplicity  of  his  costume  was 
absolute  and  severe.  On  his  plain  shirt-front  there  gleamed  not 
a  stud,  on  his  fingers  there  sparkled  not  a  ring.  Enguerrand, 
OH  the  contrar)',  was  not  without  pretension  in  his  attire  :  the 
broderie  in  his  shirt-front  seemed  woven  by  tli^e  Queen  of  the 
Fairies.  His  rings  of  turquoise  and  opal,  his  studs  and  wrist- 
buttons  of  pearl  and  brilliants,  must  have  cost  double  the  rent- 
al of  Rochebraint,  but  probably  they  cost  him  nothing.  He 
was  one  of  those  happy  Lotharios  to  whom  Calistas  make  con- 
stant presents.  All  about  him  was  so  bright  that  the  atmosphere 
around  seemed  gayer  for  his  presence. 

In  one  respect  at  least  the  brothers  closely  resembled  each 
other — in  that  exquisite  graciousness  of  manner  for  which  the 
genuine  French  noble  is  traditionally  renowned — a  graciousness 
that  did  not  desert  them  even  when  they  came  reluctantly  into 
contact  with  roturiers  or  republicans  ;  but  the  graciousness  \i^- 
C2imQ  egalite,  fraterniie  towards  one  of  their  caste  and  kindred. 

"  We  must  do  our  best  to  make  Paris  pleasant  to  you," 
said  Raoul,  still  *retainmg  in  his  grasp  the  hand  he  had  taken. 

"  Vilain  cousin,^''  said  the  livelier  Enguerrand,  "  to  have 
been  in  Paris  twenty-four  hours,  and  without  letting  us  know." 

"  Has  not  your  father  told  you  that  I  called  upon  him  .?  " 


,34  THE  PARISIAiVS. 

"  Our  falher,"  answered  Raoul,  "  was  not  so  savage  as  to 
conceal  that  fact,  but  he  said  )ou  were  onl}'  here  on  business 
for  a  day  or  two,  had  declined  his  invitation,  and  would  not 
give  your  address.  Pauvre pere  !  \sq.  scolded  him  well  for  let- 
ting you  escape  from  us  thus.  My  mother  has  not  forgiven  him 
yet ;  we  must  present  you  to  her  to-morrow.  I  answer  for  your 
liking  her  almost  as  much  as  she  will  like  you." 

Before  Alain  could  answer,  dinner  was  announced.  Alain's 
place  at  dinner  was  between  his  cousins.  How  pleasant  they 
made  themselves!  it  was  the  first  time  in  which  Alain  had  been 
brought  into  such  familiar  conversation  with  countrymen  of  his 
own  rank  as  well  as  his  own  age.  His  heart  warmed  to  them. 
The  general  talk  of  the  other  guests  was  strange  to  his  ear;  it 
ran  much  upon  horses  and  races,  upon  the  opera  and  the  ballet, 
it  was  enlivened  with  satirical  anecdotes  of  persons  whose  name 
were  unknown  to  the  Provinicial  :  not  a  word  was  said  that 
showed  the  smallest  interest  in  politics  or  the  slightest  acquain- 
tance with  literature.  The  world  of  these  well-born  guests 
seemed  one  from  which  all  that  concerned  the  great  mass  of 
mankind  was  excluded,  yet  the  talk  was  that  which  could  only 
be  found  in  a  very  polished  socii:ty  ;  in  it  there  was  not  much 
wit,  but  there  was  a  prevalent  vein  of  gayety,  and  the  gayety 
was  never  violent,  the  laughter  was  never  loud  :  the  scandals 
circulated  might  imply  cynicism  the  most  absolute,  but  in  lan- 
guage the  most  refined.  The  Jockey  Club  of  Paris  has  its  per- 
fume. 

Raoul  did  not  mix  in  the  general  conversati.on  ;  he  devoted 
himself  pointedly  to  the  amusement  of  his  cousin,  explaining  to 
him  the  point  of  the  anecdotes  circulated,  or  hitting  off  in  terse 
sentences  the  characters  of  the  talkers. 

Enguerrand  was  evidently  of  a  temper  more  vivacious  than 
his  brother,  and  contributed  freely  to  the  current  play  of  light 
gossip  and  mirthful  sally. 

Louvier,  seated  between  a  duke  and  a  Russian  prince,  said 
little,  except  to  recommend  a  wine  or  dinentree,  but  kept  his  eye 
constantly  on  the  Vandemars  and  Alain. 

Immediately  after  coffee  the  guests  departed.  Before  they 
did  so,  however,  Raoul  introduced  his  cousin  to  those  of  the 
party  most  distinguished  by  hereditary  rank  or  social  position. 
With  these  the  name  of  Rochebriant  was  too  historically 
famous  not  to  insure  respect  of  its  owner  ;  they  welcomed  him 
among  them  as  if  he  were  their  brother. 

The  French  duke  claimed  him  as  a  connection  Ly  an  alli- 
ance in  the  fourteenth  century:  the  Russian  prince  had  known 


THE  PARISIANS. 


135 


the  late  Marquis,  and  "  trusted  that  the  son  would  allow  him  to 
improve  into  friendshijD  the  acquaintance  he  had  formed  with 
the  father." 

Those  ceremonials  over,  Raoul  linked  his  arm  in  Alain's, 
and  said,  "  I  am  not  going  to  release  you  so  soon  after  we  have 
caught  you.  You  must  come  with  me  to  a  house  in  which  I 
spend  at  least  an  hour  or  two  every  evening.  I  am  at  home 
there.  Bah  !  I  take  no  refusal.  Do  not  supose  I  carry  you  off 
to  Bohemia,  a  country  which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Enguerrand 
now  and  then  visits,  but  which  is  to  me  as  unknown  as  the 
mountains  of  the  moon.  The  house  I  speak  of  is  comme  il faid 
to  the  utmost.  It  is  that  of  the  Contessa  di  Rimini —  a  charm- 
ing Italian  by  marriage,  but  by  birth  and  in  character  French 
— -jusqii'  mi  bout  des  ongles.     My  mother  adores  her." 

That  dinner  at  M.  Louvier's  had  already  effected  a  great 
change  in  the  mood  and  temper  of  Alain  de  Rochebriant  :  he 
felt,  as  if  by  magic,  the  sense  of  youth,  of  rank,  of  station,  which 
had  been  so  suddenly  checked  and  stifled,  warmed  to  life  with- 
in his  veins.  He  should  have  deemed  himself  a  boor  had  he 
refused  the  invitation  so  frankly  tendered. 

But  on  reaching  the  coupe  which  the  brothers  kept  in  com- 
mon, and  seeing  it  only  held  two,  he  drew  back. 

"  Nay,  enter,  moncher,"  said  Raoul,  divining  the  cause  of  his 
hesitation  :  "  Enguerrand  has  gone  on  to  his  club." 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Raoul,  when  they  were  in  the  caniage, 
"how  you  came  to  know  M.  Louvier." 

"  He  is  my  chief  mortgagee." 

"  H'm  !  that  explains  it.  But  you  might  be  in  worse  hands  ; 
the  man  has  a  character  for  liberality." 

'  Did  your  father  mention  to  you  my  circumstances,  and  the 
reason  that  brings  me  to  Paris  ?  " 

"  Since  you  put  the  question  point-blank,  my  dear  cousin, 
he  did." 

"  He  told  you  how  poor  I  am,  and  how  keen  must  be  my  life- 
long struggle  to  keep  Rochebriant  as  the  home  of  my  race  '■  " 

"  He  told  us  all  that  could  make  us  still  more  respect  the 
Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  and  st'll  more  eagerly  long  to  know 


12(5  THE  PARISIANS. 

our  cousin  and  the  head  of  our  house,"  answered  Raoul,  with  a 
certain  nobleness  of  tone  and  manner, 

Alain  pressed  his  kinsman's  hand  with  grateful  emotion. 

'•  Yet,"  he  said,  falteringly,  "  your  father  agreed  with  nie 
that  my  circumstances  would  not  allow  me  to " 

"Bah!"  interrupted  Raoul,  with  a  gentle  laugh;  "my 
father  is  a  very  clever  man,  doubtless,  but  he  knows  only  the 
woild  of  his  own  day,  nothing  of  the  world  of  ours.  I  and 
Enguerrand  will  call  on  you  to-morrow,  to  take  you  to  my 
mother,  and,  before  doing  so,  to  consult  as  to  affairs  in  general. 
On  this  last  matter  Enguerrand  is  an  oracle.  Here  we  are  at 
the  Contessa's." 


CHAPTER  VI. 


The  Contessa  di  Rimini  received  her  visitors  in  a  boudoir 
furnished  with  much  apparent  simplicity,  but  a  simplicity  by  no 
means  inexpensive.  The  draperies  were  but  of  chintz,  and  the 
walls  covered  with  the  same  material,  a  lively  pattern,  in  which 
the  prevalent  tints  were  rose-color  and  white  ;  but  the  ornaments 
on  the  mantelpiece,  the  china  stored  in  the  cabinets  or  arranged 
on  the  shelves,  the  small  nicknacks  scattered  on  the  tables, 
were  costly  rarities  of  art. 

The  Contessa  herself  was  a  woman  who  had  somewhat 
passed  her  thirtieth  year,  not  strikingly  handsome,  but  exquis- 
itely pretty.  "  There  is."  said  a  great  French  writer,  "  only  one 
way  in  which  a  woman  can  be  handsome,  but  a  hundred  thou- 
sand ways  in  which  she  can  be  pretty;  "  and  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  reckon  upon  the  number  of  ways  in  which  Adeline 
di  Rimini  carried  off  the  prize  in  prettiness. 

Yet  it  would  be  unjust  to  the  personal  attractions  of  the 
Contessa  to  class  them  all  under  the  word  "  prettiness."  When 
regarded  more  attentively,  there  was  an  expression  in  her 
countenance  that  might  almost  be  called  divine,  it  spoke  so  -m- 
mistakably  of  a  sweet  nature  and  an  untroubled  soul.  An 
English  poet  once  described  her  by  repeating  the  old  lines, — 

"  Her  face  is  like  the  milky  way  i  the  sky — 
A  meeting  of  gentle  lights  without  a  name." 


THE  PARISIANS. 


137 


She  was  not  alone  ;  an  elderly  lady  sat  in  an  arm-chair  by 
the  fire,  engaged  in  knitting,  and  a  man,  also  elderly,  and  whose 
dress  proclaimed  him  an  ecclesiastic,  sat  at  the  opposite  corner, 
with  a  large  Angora  cat  on  his  lap. 

"  I  present  to  you,  Madame,"  said  Raoul,  "  my  new-found 
cousin,  the  seventeenth  Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  whom  I  am 
proud  to  consider,  on  the  male  side,  the  head  of  our  house, 
respresentirig  its  eldest  branch  :  welcome  him  for  my  sake — iii 
future  he  will  be  welcome  for  his  own." 

The  Contessa  replied  very  graciously  to  this  introiuctiou, 
and  made  room  for  Alain  on  the  divan  from  which  she  had 
risen. 

The  old  lady  looked  up  from  her  knitting,  the  ecclesiastic 
removed  the  cat  from  his  lap.  Said  the  old  lady,  "  I  announce 
myself  to  M.  le  Marquis  :  I  knew  his  mother  well  enough  to 
be  invited  to  his  christening  ;  otherwise  I  have  no  pretension 
to  the  acquaintance  of  a  cavalier  si  beau, — being  old — rather 
deaf — very  stupid — exceedingly  poor " 

"  And,"  interrupted  Raoul,  '"'  the  woman  in  all  Paris  the 
most  adored  for  bonfe,  and  consulted  for  savoirvivre  by  the 
young  cavaliers  whom  she  deigns  to  receive.  Alam,  I  present 
you  to  Madame  de  Maury,  the  widow  of  a  distinguished  author 
and  academician,  and  the  daughter  of  the  brave  Henri  de 
Gerval,  who  fought  for  the  good  cause  in  La  Vendee.  I 
present  you  also  to  the  Abbe  Vertpre  who  has  passed  his  life 
in  the  vain  endeavor  to  make  other  men  as  good  as  himself." 

"  Base  flatterer!  "  said  the  Abbe,  pinching  Raoul's  ear  with 
one  hand,  while  he  extended  the  other  to  Alain.  "  Do  not  let 
you  cousin  frighten  you  from  knowing  me,  M.  le  Marquis  ; 
when  he  was  my  pupil,  he  so  convinced  me  of  the  incorrigibility 
of  perverse  human  nature,  that  I  now  chiefly  address  myself 
to  the  moral  improvenent  of  the  brute  creation.  Ask  the 
Contessa  if  I  have  not  achieved  a  beau  success  with  her  Angoia 
cat.  Three  months  ago  that  creature  had  the  two  worst  pro- 
pensities of  man.  lie  was  at  once  savage  and  mean  ;  he  bit, 
he  stole.  Does  he  ever  bite  now  ?  No.  Does  he  ever  steal  ? 
No.  Why  ?  I  have  awakened  in  that  cat  the  dormant  con- 
science, and,  that  done,  the  conscience  regulates  his  actions  :  once 
make  aware  of  the  difference  between  wrong  and  right,  the  cat 
maintains  it  unswervingly  as  if  it  were  a  law  of  nature.  But 
if,  with  prodigious  labor,  one  does  awaken  conscience  in  a 
human  sinner,  it  has  no  steady  effect  on  his  conduct — he  con 
tinues  to  sin    all  the  same.     Mankind   xX  Paris  Monsieur  le 


138 


THE  PARISIANS. 


Marquis  is  divided  between  two  classes — one  bites  and  the  other 
steals  :  shun  both  ;  devote  yourself  to  cats." 

I'he  Abbe  delivered  his  oration  with  a  gravity  of  mien  and 
tone  which  made  it  difficult  to  guess  whether  he  spoke  in  sport 
or  in  earnest — in  simple  playfulness  or  with  latent  sarcasm. 

But  on  the  brow  and  in  the  eye  of  the  priest  there  \vas_a 
jjeneral  expression  of  quiet  benevolence,  which  made  Alain 
incline  to  the  belief  that  he  was  only  speaking  as  a  pleasant 
humorist  ;  and  the  Marquis  replied  gayly — 

"  Monsieur  1'  Abbe,  admitting  the  superior  virtue  of  cats, 
when  taught  by  so  intelligent  a  preceptor,  sull  the  bus  ness 
of  human  life  is  not  transacted  by  cats  ;  and  since  men  must 
deal  with  men,  permit  me,  as  a  preliminary  caution,  to  inquire 
in  which  class  I  must  rank  yourself.  Do  you  bite,  or  do  you 
steal  t " 

This  sally,  which  showed  that  the  Marqui:  was  already 
shaking  off  his  provincial  reserve,  met  with  great  success. 

Raoul  and  the  contessa  laughed  merrily ;  Madame  de 
Maurv  clapped  her  hands,  and  cried  ''  Bien  !  " 

The  Abbe'  replied,  with  unmoved  gravity,  "  Both.  I  am  a 
priest ;  it  is  my  duty  to  bite  the  bad  and  steal  from  the  good, 
as  you  will  see,  M.  le  Marquis,  if  you  will  glance  at  this  paper." 
'Here  he  handed  to  Alain  a  memorial  on  behalf  of  an 
afflicted  family  who  had  been  burnt  out  of  their  home  and 
reduced  from  comparative  ease  to  absolute  want.  There  was 
a  list  appended  of  some  twenty  subscribers,  the  last  being  the 
Contessa,  fiftv  francs,  and  Madame  de  Maury,  five. 

"  Allow  rne,  Marquis,"  said  the  Abbe,  "to  steal  from  you  ; 
bless  you  twofold,  mon  fils !''  (taking  the  napoleon  Alain  ex- 
tended to  him) — "  first,  for  charity — secondly,  for  the  effect  of 
its  example  upon  the  heart  of  your  cousin.  Raoul  de  Vande- 
mar,  stand  and  deli\'er.     Bah  ! — what !  only  ten  francs  !  " 

Raoul  made  a  sign  to  the  Abbe',  unperceived  by  the  rest,  as 
he  answered,  "  Abb^,  I  should  excel  your  expectations  of  my 
career  if  I  always  continue  worth  half  as  much  as  my  cousin." 

Alain  fell  to  the  bottom  of  his  heart  the  delicate  tact  of  his 
richer  kinsman  in  giving  less  than  himself,  and  the  Abbe  replied 
"  Niggard,  you  are  pardoned.  Humility  is  a  more  difficuli 
virtue  to  produce  than  charity,  and  in  your  case  an  instance 
of  it  is  so  rare  that  it  merits  encouragement." 

The  "  tea-equipage"  was  now  served  in  what  at  Paris  is 
called  the  English  fashion  ;  the  Contessa  presided  over  it,  the 
guests  gathered  round  the  table,  and  the  evening  passed  away 
in  the  innocent  gayety  of  a  domestic  circle.     The  talk,  if  not 


THE  rAKTSTAA\^.  139 

especially  intellectual,  was  at  least  not  fashionable — books 
were  not  discussed,  neither  were  scandals  ;  yet  somehow  or 
other  it  was  cheery  and  animated,  like  that  of  a  happy  family 
in  a  country-house.  Alain  thought  still  the  better  of  Raoul 
that,  Parisian  though  he  was,  he  could  appreciate  the  charm 
of  an  evening  so  innocently  spent. 

On  taking  leave,  the  Contessa  gave  Alain  a  general  invita^ 
tion  to  drop  in  whenever  he  was  not  better  engaged. 

"  I  except  only  the  opera  nights,"  said  she,  "  My  husband 
has  gone  to  Milan  on  his  affairs,  and  during  his  absence  I  do 
not  go  to  parties  ;  the  opera  I  cannot  resist." 

Raoul  set  Alain  down  at  his  lodgings.  ".<4«  revoir\  to- 
morrow at  one  o'  clock  expect  Enguerrand  and  myself." 


CHAPTER  VII. 


Raoul  and  Enguerrand  called  on  Alain  at  the  hour  fixed. 
"  In  the  first  place,"  said  Raoul,  "  I  must  beg  you  to  accept 
my  mother's  regrets  that  she  cannot  receive  you  to-day.  She 
and  the  Contessa  belong  to  a  society  of  ladies  formed  for  visit- 
ing the  poor,  and  this  is  their  day  ;  but  to-morrow  you  must  dine 
with  us  efifamille.  Now  to  business.  Allow  me  to  light  my  eigar 
while  you  confide  the  whole  state  of  affairs  to  Enguerrand  :  what- 
ever he  counsels,  I  am  sure  to  approve." 

Alain,  as  briefly  as  he  could,  stated  his  circumstances,  his 
mortgages,  and  the  hopes  which  his  avoue\iz.6.  encouraged  him  to 
place  in  the  friendly  disposition  of  M.  Louvier.  When  he 
had  concluded,  Enguerrand  mused  for  a  few  moments  before 
replying.  At  last  he  said,  "  Will  you  trust  me  to  call  on 
Louvier  on  your  behalf  }  I  shall  but  inquire  if  he  is  inclined 
to  take  on  himself  the  other  mortgages,  and,  if  so,  on  what 
terms.  Our  relationship  gives  me  the  excuse  for  my  inter- 
ference :  and,  to  say  truth,  I  have  had  much  familiar  inter- 
course with  the  man.  I  too  am  a  speculator,  and  have  often 
profited  by  Louvier's  advice.  You  may  ask  what  can  be  his 
object  in  serving  me ;  he  can  gain  nothing  by  it.  To 
this  I  answer,  the  key  to  his  good  offices  is  in  his  character. 
Audacious  though  he  be  as  a  speculator,  he  is  wonderfully  prudent 
as  a  politician.  This  belle  France  of  ours  is  like  a  stage  tum- 
bler :  one  can  never  be  sure  whether  it  will  stand  on  its  head  or 


I40  'J'lfl--   PARISlAXr,. 


its  feet.  Louvier  very  wisely  wishes  liimself  safe  whatever 
party  comes  uppermost.  He  has  no  faith  in  the  duration  of 
the  Kinpire  ;  and  as,  at  all  events,  the  Empire  will  not  confiscate 
his  millions,  he  takes  no  trouble  in  conciliating  Imperialists, 
But  on  the  principle  which  induces  certain  savages  to  worship 
the  devil  and  neglect  the  ban  Dieu,  because  the  devil  is  spite- 
ful and  the  bon  Dieu  is  too  beneficent  to  injure  them,  Louvier 
at  heart  detesting  as  well  as  dreading  a  republic,  lays  himself 
out  to  secure  friends  with  the  Republicans  of  all  classes,  and 
pretends  to  espouse  their  cause.  Next  to  them  he  is  very  con- 
ciliatory to  the  Orleanists.  Lastly,  though  he  thinks  the 
Legitimists  have  no  chance,  he  desires  to  keep  well  with  the 
nobles  of  that  party,  because  they  exercise  a  considerable  in- 
fluence over  that  sphere  of  o]Mnion  which  belongs  to  fashion  for 
fashion  is  ever  powerless  in  Paris.  Raoul  and  myself  are  no  mean 
authorities  in  salons  and  clubs  ;  and  a  good  word  from  us  is  worth 
having. 

"  Besides,  Louvier  himself  in  his  youth  set  up  for  a  dandy  ; 
and  that  deposed  ruler  of  dandies,  our  unfortunate  kinsman, 
Victor  de  Maule'on,  shed  some  of  his  own  radiance  on  the 
money-lender's  son.  But  when  Victor's  star  was  eclipsed, 
Louvier  ceased  to  gleam.  The  dandies  cut  him.  In  his  heart 
he  exults  that  the  dandies  now  throng  to  his  soirees.  Bref,  the 
millionaire  is  especially  civil  to  me— the  more  so  as  I  know 
intimately  two  or  three  eminent  journalists  ;  and  Louvier  takes 
pains  to  plant  garrisons  in  the  press.  I  trust  I  have  explained 
the  grounds  on  which  I  may  be  a  better  diplomatist  to  employ 
than  your  avotie ;  and  with  your  leave  1  will  go  to  Louvier  at 
once." 

"Let  him  go,"  said  Raoul.  "  Enguerrand  never  fails  in 
anything  he  undertakes,  especially,"  he  added,  with  a  smile 
half  sad,  half  tender,  "when  one  wishes  to  replenish  one's 
purse." 

"  f,'  ^°.°'  gfatefuUy  grant  such  an  ambassador  all  powers  to 
treat,"  said  Alain.  "  I  am  only  ashametl  to  consign  to  him  a 
post  so  much  beneath  his  genius,"—"  and  his  birth,"  he  was 
about  to  add,  but  wisely  checked  himself. 

Enguerrand  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  You  can't  do  me  a 
greater  kindness  than  by  setting  my  wits  at  work.  I  fall  a 
martyr  to  en/iui,  when  I  am  not  in  action,"  he  said,  and  was 
gone. 

"  It  makes  me  very  melancholy  at  times,"  said  Raoul,  fling- 
mg  away  the  end  of  his  cigar,  "to  think  that  a  man  so  clever 
and  so  energetic  as  Enguerrand  should  be  as  much  excluded  from 


THE  PARISIANS.  141 

the  service  of  his  county  as  if  he  were  an  Iroquois  Indian, 
He  would  have  made  a  g;reat  diplomatist." 

"Alas!"  replied  Alain,  with  a  sigh,  "I  begin  to  doubt 
whether  we  Legitimists  are  justified  in  maintaining  a  useless 
loyalty  to  a  sovereign  who  renders  us  morally  exiles  in  the 
land  of  our  birth." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  on  the  subject,"  said  Raoul.  "  We  are 
not  justified  on  the  score  of  policy,  but  we  have  no  option  al 
present  on  the  score  of  honor.  We  should  gain  so  much  for 
ourselves  if  we  adopted  the  State  livery  and  took  the  State 
wages  that  no  man  would  esteem  us  as  patriots  ;  we  should  only 
be  despised  as  apostates.  So  long  as  Henry  V.  lives,  and  does 
not  resign  his  claim,  we  cannot  be  active  citizens ;  we  must  be 
mournful  lookers-on.  But  what  matters  it  ?  We  nobles  of  the 
old  race  are  becoming  rapidly  extinct.  Under  any  form  of 
government  likely  to  be  established  in  France  we  are  equally 
doomed.  The  French  people,  aiming  at  an  impossible 
equality,  will  never  again  tolerate  a  race  of  gentils-hommes. 
They  cannot  prevent,  without  destroying  commerce  and  capital 
altogether,  a  quick  succession  of  men  of  the  day,  who  form 
nominal  aristocracies  much  more  opposed  to  equality  than  any 
hereditary  class  of  nobles.  But  they  refuse  these  fleeting  sub- 
stitutes of  born  patricians  all  permanent  stake  in  the  country, 
since  whatever  estate  they  buy  must  be  subdivided  at  their 
death.  My  poor  Alain,  you  are  making  it  the  one  ambition  of 
your  life  to  preserve  to  your  posterity  the  home  and  lands  of 
your  forefathers.  How  is  that  possible  even  supposing  you  could 
redeem  the  mortgages  ?  You  marry  some  clay — you  have  chil- 
dren, and  Rochebriant  must  then  be  sold  to  pay  for  their 
separate  portions.  How  this  condition  of  things,  while  render- 
ing us  so  inefiiective  to  perform  the  normal  functions  of  a 
noblesse  in  public  life,  affects  us  in  private  life,  may  be  easily 
conceiv'ed. 

"  Condemned  to  a  career  of  pleasure  and  frivolity,  we  can 
scarcely  escape  from  the  contagion  of  extravagent  luxury  which 
forms  the  vice  of  the  time.  With  grand  names  to  keep  up,  and 
small  fortunes  whereon  to  keep  them,  we  readily  incur  embar- 
rassment and  debt.  Then  neediness  conquers  pride.  We<'an- 
not  be  great  merchants,  but  we  can  be  small  gamblers  ot  the 
Bourse,  or,  thanks  to  the  Credit  Molnlier,  imitate  a  cai  met 
minister  and  keep  a  shop  under  another  name.  Perhaps  you 
have  heard  that  Enguerrand  and  I  keep  a  shop.  Pray  buy 
yours  gloves  there  Strange  fate  for  men  whose  ancestors 
fought  in  the  first  Crusade  niais  que  voukz-vous  ?" 


,^2  THE  PARISIAA'S. 

"  I  was  told  of  the  shop,"  said  Alain,  "  but  the  moment  I 
knew  you  I  disbelieved  the  story." 

"  Quite  true.  Shall  I  confide  to  you  why  we  resorted  to 
this  means  of  finding  ourselves  in  pocket  money  ?  My  father 
gives  us  rooms  in  his  hotel  ;  the  use  of  his  table,  which  we  do 
not  much  profit  by ;  an  allowance,  on  which  we  could  not  live 
as  young  men  of  our  class  live  at  Paris.  Enguerrand  had  his 
means  of  spending  pocket  money,  I  mine  ;  but  it  came  to  the 
same  thing — the  pockets  were  emptied.  We  incurred  debts. 
Two  years  ago  my  father  straitened  himself  to  pay  them,  saying, 
*  'I"he  next  time  you  come  to  me  with  debts,  however  small,  you 
must  pay  them  yourselves,  or  you  must  marry  and  leave  it  to  me 
to  find  you  wives.'  This  threat  appalled  us  both.  A  month 
afterwards,  Enguerrand  made  a  lucky  hit  at  the  Bourse,  and 
proposed  to  invest  the  proceeds  in  a  shop.  I  resisted  as  long 
as  I  could,  but  Enguerrand  triumphed  over  me,  as  he  always 
does.  He  found  an  excellent  deputy  in  ■Abonne  who  had  nurs- 
ed us  in  childliood  and  married  a  journeyman  perfumer  who 
understands  the  business.  It  answers  well :  we  are  not  in  debt, 
and  we  have  preserved  out  freedom." 

After  these  confessions  Raoul  went  away,  and  Alain  fell  in- 
to a  mournful  reverie,  from  which  he  was  roused  by  a  loud  ring 
at  his  bell.  He  opened  the  door  and  beheld  M.  Louvier. 
The  burly  financier  was  much  out  of  breath  after  making  so 
steep  an  ascent.  It  was  in  gasps  that  he  muttered,  "  Bon  Jour  \ 
excuse  me  if  I  derange  you."  Then  entering  and  seating  him- 
.self  on  a  chair,  he  took  some  minutes  to  recover  speech,  rolling 
his  eyes  staringly  around  the  meagre,  unluxurious  room,  and 
then  concentrating  their  gaze  upon  its  occupier. 

"  resie,  my  dear  Marquis  !"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  hope  the  next 
time  I  \isit  you  the  ascent  may  be  less  arduous.  One  would 
think  you  were  in  training  to  ascend  the  Himalaya." 

The  haughty  noble  writhed  under  this  jest,  and  the  spirit 
inborn  in  his  order  spoke  in  his  answer. 

"  I  am  accustomed  to  dwell  on  heights,  M.  Louvier :  the 
castle  of  Rochebriant  is  not  on  a  level  with  the  town." 

An  angry  gleam  shot  from  the  eyes  of  the  millionaire,  but 
there  was  no  other  sign  of  anger  in  his  answer. 

'■' Bien  dit,  mon  cher :  how  you  remind  me  of  your  father ' 
Now  give  me  leave  to  speak  on  affairs.  I  have  seen  jour  cousin 
Enguerrand  de  Vandemar.  Homme demoyeiis,  thoughj'o/tgafron. 
He  proposed  that  you  should  call  on  me.  I  said  'no'  to  the 
chcr  petit  Enguerrand — a  visit  from  me  was  due  to  you.  To  cut 
maiiexs    short,   M.   Gandrin  has  allowed  me   to  look  at  your 


THE  PARISIANS.  143 

papers.  I  was  disposed  to  serve  you  from  the  first — I  am  still 
more  disposed  to  serve  you  now.  I  undertake  to  pay  off  all 
your  other  mortgages,  and  become  sole  mortgagee,  and  on 
terms  that  I  have  jotted  down  on  this  paper,  and  which  I  hope 
will  content  you." 

He  placed  a  paper  in  Alain's  hand,  and  took  out  a  box,  from 
which  he  extracted  a  jujube,  placed  it  in  his  mouth,  folded' his 
hands,  and  reclined  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  eyes  half  closed 
as  if  exhausted  alike  by  his  ascent  and  his  generosity. 

In  effect  the  terms  were  unexpectedly  liberal.  The  reduced 
interest  on  the  mortgages  would  leave  the  Marquis  an  income 
of  one  thousand  pounds  ayearinsteadof  four  hundred.  Louvier 
proposed  to  take  on  himself  the  legal  cost  of  transfer,  and  to 
pay  to  the  Marquis  twenty-five  thousand  francs  on  the  comple- 
tion of  the  deed  as  a  bonus.  The  mortgage  did  not  exemjDt 
the  building  land,  as  Hebert  desired.  In  all  else  it  was 
singularly  advantageous,  and  Alain  could  but  feel  a  thrill  of 
grateful  delight  at  an  offer  by  which  his  stinted  income  was 
raised  to  comparative  aftiuence. 

"  Well,  Marquis,"  said  Louvier,  "  what  does  the  castle  say  to 
the  town  ?" 

"  M.  Louvier,"  answered  Alain,  extending  his  hand  with  cor- 
dial eagerness,  "accept  my  sincere  apologies  for  the  indiscre- 
tion of  my  metaphor.  Poverty  is  proverbially  sensitive  to  jests 
on  it.  I  owe  it  to  you  if  I  cannot  hereafter  make  that  excuse 
for  any  words  of  mine  that  may  displease  you.  The  terms  you 
propose  are  most  liberal,  and  I  close  with  them  at  once." 

"  Bon,"  said  Louvier,  shaking  vehemently  the  hand  offered 
to  him  ;  "  1  will  take  the  paper  to  Gandrin  and  instruct  him 
accordingly.  And  now  may  I  attach  a  condition  to  the  agree- 
ment which  is  not  put  down  on  paper  ?  It  may  have  surprised 
you  perhaps  that  I  should  propose  a  gratuity  of  twenty-five 
thousand  francs  on  completion  of  the  contract.  It  is  a  droll 
thing  to  do,  and  not  in  the  ordinary  way  of  business,  therefore 
I  must  explain.  Marquis,  pardon  the  liberty  I  take,  but  you 
have  inspired  me  with  an  interest  in  your  future.  With  your 
birth,  connections,  and  tlgure,  you  should  push  your  way  in  the 
world  far  and  fast.  But  you  can't  do  so  in  a  province.  You 
must  find  your  opening  at  Paris.  I  wish  you  to  spend  a  year 
at  the  capital,  and  live,  not  extravagantly,  like  a  7iouveau  nche, 
but  in  a  way  not  unsuited  to  your  rank,  and  permitting  you  all 
the  social  advantages  that  belong  to  it.  These  twenty-five 
thousand  francs,  in  addition  to  your  improved  income,  will  en 
able  you  to  gratify  my  wish  in  this  respect.     Spend  the  money 


,  44  THE  rARISIAA'S. 

In  Paris  :  you  will  want  every  sou  of  it  in  the  course  of  the  year. 
It  will  be  money  well  spent,  take  my  advice,  (rZ/^-r  Marquis.  Au 
p/aisir." 

The  financier  bowed  himself  out.  The  3'oung  Marquis  for- 
g^ot  all  the  mournful  reflections  with  which  Raoul's  conversation 
h;id  inspired  him.  He  gave  a  new  touch  to  his  toilet,  and 
sallied  forth  with  the  air  of  a  man  on  whose  morning  of  life  a 
sun  heretofore  clouded  has  burst  forth  and  transformed  the  face 
of  the  landscape. 


CHAPTER  VHI. 


Since  the  evening  spent  at  the  Savarins',  Graham  had  seen 
no  more  of  Isaura.  He  had  avoided  all  clance  of  seein*  her 
— in  fact,  the  jealousy  with  which  he  had  viewed  her  manner 
towards  Rameau,  and  the  angry  amaze  with  which  he  had  heard 
her  proclaim  her  friendship  for  Madame  de  Grantmesnil,  served 
to  strengthen  the  grave  and  secret  reasons  which  made  him 
desire  to  keep  his  heart  yet  free  and  his  hand  yet  unpledged. 
But,  alas  !  the  heart  was  enslaved  already.  It  was  under  the 
most  fatal  of  all  spells — first  love  conceived  at  first  sight.  He 
was  wretched  ;  and  in  his  wretchedness  his  resolves  became  in- 
voluntarily weakened.  He  found  himself  making  excuses  for 
the  beloved.  What  cause  had  he,  after  all,  for  that  jealousy  of 
the  young  poet  which  had  so  offended  him  ?  and  if  in  her  youth 
and  inexperience,  Isaura  had  made  her  dearest  friend  of  a 
great  writer  by  whose  genius  she  might  be  dazzled,  and 
of  whose  opinions  she  might  scarcely  be  aware,  was  it  a 
crime  that  necessiated  her  eternal  banishment  from  the  rever- 
ence which  belongs  to  all  manly  love  ?  Certainly  he  found  no 
satisfacloiy  answers  to  such  self-questionings.  And  then  those 
grave  reasons  known  only  to  himself,  and  never  to  be  confided  to 
another — why  he  should  yet  reserve  his  hand  unpledged — were 
not  so  imperative  as  to  admit  of  no  compromise.  They  might 
entail  a  sacrifice,  and  not  a  small  one  to  a  man  of  Graham's 
views  and  ambition.  But  what  is  love  if  it  can  think  any  sacri- 
fice, short  of  duty  and  honor,  too  great  to  offer  up  unknown, 
vmcomprehended,  to  the  one  beloved.  Still,  while  thus  soften 
ed  in  his  feelings  towards  Isaura,  he  became,  perhaps  in  con 
sequence  of  such  softening,  more  and  more  restlessly  impatient 


THE  rAR/S/AxVS. 


145 


to  fulfil  the  object  for  which  he  had  come  to  Paris,  the  great 
step  towards  which  was  the  discovery  of  the  uiidiscoverable 
Louise  Duval. 

He  had  written  more  than  once  to  M.  Renard  since  the 
interview  with  that  functionary  already  recorded,  demanding 
whether  Renard  had  not  made  some  progress  in  the  research 
on  which  he  was  empjoyed,  and  had  received  short  unsatisfac- 
to:y  replies  preaching  patience  and  implying  hope. 

The  plain  truth,  however,  was  that  M.  Renard  had  taken  no 
further  pains  in  the  matter.  He  considered  it  utter  waste  of 
time  and  thought  to  attempt  a  discovery  to  which  the  traces 
were  so  faint  and  so  obsolete.  If  the  discovery  were  effected, 
it  must  be  by  one  of  those  chances  which  occur  without  labor 
or  forethought  of  our  own.  He  trusted  only  to  such  a  chance 
in  continuing  the  charge  he  had  undertaken.  But  during  the 
last  day  or  two  Graham  had  become  yet  more  impatient  than 
before,  and  peremptorily  requested  another  visit  from  this  dila- 
tory confidant. 

In  that  visit,  finding  himself  pressed  hard,  and  though  nat- 
urally willing,  if  possible,  to  retain  a  client  unusually  generous, 
yet  being,  on  the  whole,  an  honest  member  of  his  profession, 
and  feeling  it  to  be  somewhat  unfair  to  accept  large  remunera- 
tion for  doing  nothing,  M.  Renard  said  frankly,  "  Monsieur, 
this  affair  is  beyond  me  ;  the  keenest  agent  of  our  police  could 
make  nothing  of  it.  Unless  you  can  tell  me  more  than  you 
have  done,  I  am  utterly  without  a  clue.  I  resign,  therefore,  the 
task  with  which  you  honored  me,  willing  to  resume  it  again  if 
you  can  give  me  information  that  could  render  me  of  use." 

"  What  sort  of  information  ?  " 

*'  At  least  the  names  of  some  of  the  lady's  relations  who 
may  yet  be  living." 

"  But  it  strikes  me  that,  if  I  could  get  at  that  piece  of 
knowledge,  I  should  not  require  the  services  of  the  police. 
The  relations  would  tell  me  what  had  become  of  Louise  Duval 
quite  as  readily  as  they  would  tell  a  police  agent." 

"  Quite  true,  Monsieur.  It  would  really  be  picking  your 
pockets  if  I  did  not  at  once  retire  from  your  service.  Nay, 
Monsieur,  pardon  me,  no  further  payments  ;  I  have  already 
accepted  too  much.     Your  most  obedient  servant." 

Graham,  left  alone,  fell  into  a  very  gloomy  reverie.  He 
could  not  but  be  sensible  of  the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  the 
object  which  had  brought  him  to  Paris,  with  somewhat  san- 
guine expectations  of  success  founded  on  a  belief  in  the  om- 
niscience of  the  Parisian  police,  which  is   only  to  be  justified 


J  ^5  THE  PAKISIAXS. 

when  they  have  to  deal  with  a  murderess  or  a  political  incen- 
diary. ]iut  the  name  of  Louise  Duval  is  about  as  common  in 
France  as  that  of  Mary  Smith  in  England  ;  and  the  English 
reader  may  judge  what  would  be  the  likely  result  of  inquiring 
through  the  ablest  of  our  detectives  after  some  Mary  Smith  of 
whoni'you  could  give  little  more  information  than  that  she  was 
the  daughter  of  a  drawing-master  who  had  died  twenty  years 
ago,  that  it  was  about  fifteen  years  since  anything  had  been 
heard  of  her,  and  that  you  could  not  say  if,  through  mairiage 
or  for  other  reasons,  she  had  changed  her  name  or  not,  and 
vou  had  reasons  for  declining  recourse  to  public  advertisements. 
In  the  course  of  inquiry  so  instituted,  the  probability  would  be 
that  you  might  hear  of  a  great  many  Mary  Smiths,  in  the  pur- 
suit of  whom  your  employe  would  lose  all  sight  and  scent  of  the 
one  Mary  Smith  for  whom  the  chase  was  instituted. 

In  the  midst  of  Graham's  despairing  reflections  his  laquais 
announced  M.  Frederic  Lemercier. 

"  Cher  Grarm-Varn.  A  thousand  pardons  if  I  disturb  you 
at  this  late  hour  of  the  evening  ;  but  you  remember  the  re- 
quest you  made  me  when  you  first  arrived  in  Paris  this  sea- 
Sun  : 

•'  Of  course  I  do — in  case  you  should  ever  chance  in  your 
wide  round  of  acquaintances  to  fall  in  with  a  Madame  or 
Mademoiselle  Duval  of  about  the  age  of  forty,  or  a  year  or  so 
less,  lo  let  me  know  :  and  you  did  fall  in  with  two  ladies  of 
that  name,  but  they  were  not  the  right  one— not  the  person 
whom  my  friend  begged  me  to  discover — both  much  too 
young."' 

"  Eh  hcii,  mon  cher.  If  you  will  come  with  me  to  le  bal 
<hatnpetre  m  the  Champs  Elysees  to-night,  I  can  show  you  a 
third  Madame  Duval ;  her  Christian  name  is  Louise,  too,  of 
the  age  you  mention — though  she  does  her  best  to  look 
vounger,  and  is  still  very  handsome.  You  said  your  Duval  was 
handsome.  It  was  only  last  evening  that  I  met  this  lady  at  a 
w/r<f^given  by  Mademoiselle  Julie  Caumartin,  coryphee distinguee^ 
m  love  with  young  Rameau." 

"  In  love'with'young  Rameau?  I  am  /ery  glad  to  hear  it. 
He  returns  the  li.ve  .''  " 

"  I  suppose  so.  He  seems  very  proud  of  it.  But  a  propos 
of  Madame  Duval,  she  has  been  long  absent  from  Paris — just 
returned — and  looking  out  for  conquests.  She  says  she  has  a 
gxedii penchant  for  the  English;  promises  me  to  be  at  this  ball. 
Come." 

*•■  Hearty  thanks,  my  dear  Lemercier.    I  am  at  your  service." 


TIIK  PARISIANS.  i^y 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  bal  champetre  was  gay  and  brilliant,  as  such  festal 
scenes  are  at  Paris.  A  lovely  night  in  the  midst  of  May  — 
lamps  below  and  stars  above  :  the  society  mixed,  of  course. 
Evidently,  when  Graham  had  singled  out  Frederic  Lemerciei 
from  all  his  acquaintances  at  Paris,  to  conjoin  with  the  official 
aid  of  M.  Renard  in  search  of  the  mysterious  lady,  he  had  con- 
jectured the  probability  that  she  might  be  found  in  the  Bohe- 
mian world  so  familiar  to  Frederic  ;  if  not  as  an  inhabitant,  at 
least  as  an  explorer.  Bohemia  was  largely  represented  at  J  he 
bal  champetre,  but  not  without  a  fair  sprinkling  of  what  we  call 
the  "  respectable  classes,"  especially  English  and  Americans, 
who  brought  their  wives  there  to  take  care  of  them.  French- 
men, not  needing  such  care,  prudently  left  their  wives  at  home. 
Among  the  Frenchmen  of  station  were  the  Comte  de  Passy  and 
the  Vicomte  de  Bre'ze. 

On  first  entering  the  gardens,  Graham's  eye  was  attracted 
and  dazzled  by  a  brilliant  form.  It  was  standing  under  a  fes- 
toon of  flowers  extended  from  tree  to  tree,  and  a  gas-jet  oppo- 
site shone  full  upon  the  face — the  face  of  a  girl  in  all  the  fresh- 
ness of  youth.  If  the  freshness  owed  anything  to  art,  the  art 
was  so  well  disguised  that  it  seemed  nature.  The  beauty  of 
the  countenance  was  Hebe-like,  joyous,  and  radiant,  and  yet 
one  could  not  look  at  the  girl  without  a  sentiment  of  deep 
mournfulness.  She  was  surrounded  by  a  group  of  young  men, 
and  tl>e  ring  of  her  laugh  jarred  upon  Graham's  ear.  He 
pressed  Frederic's  arm,  and,  directing  his  attention  to  the  girl, 
ftsked  who  she  was. 

"  Who  ?  Don't  you  know  ?  That  is  Julie  Caumartin.  A 
Ittle  while  ago  her  equipage  was  the  most  admired  in  the  Bois, 
and  great  ladies  condescended  to  copy  her  dress  or  her  coiffure. 
But  she  has  lost  her  splendor,  and  dismissed  the  rich  admiiei 
who  supplied  the  fuel  for  its  blaze,  since  she  fell  in  love  with 
Gustave  "Rameau.  Doubtless  she  is  expecting  him  to-night. 
You  ought  to  know  her  ;  shall  I  present  you  .-'  " 

"  No,"  answered  Graham,  with  a  compassionate  expression 
in  his  manly  face.  "  So  young ;  seemingly  so  gay.  How  I  pity 
her  !  " 

"  What !  for  throwing  herself  away  on  Rameau  ?  True. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  good  in  he  girl's  nature,  if  she  had 


,  ^  3  THE  P.  1  R/S/AA^S. 

been  properly  trained.  Rameau  wrote  a  pretty  poem  on  her, 
which  turned  her  licad  and  won  her  heart,  in  wliich  she  is  styled 
the  '  Ondine  of  Paris,'— a  nyniph-lil<e  type  of  Paris  itself." 

"  Vanishing  t)'pe,  like  her  namesake  ;  born  of  the  spray,  and 
vanishing  soon  into  the  deep,"  said  Graham.  "  Pray  go  and 
1  jok  for°he  Duval  ;  you  will  find  me  seated  yonder." 

Graham  passed  into  a  retired  alley,  and  threw  himself  on  a 
solitary  bench,  while  Lemercier  went  in  search  of  Madame 
Duval.  In  a  few  minutes  the  Frenchman  reappeared.  By  his 
side  was  a  lady  well  dressed,  and  as  she  passed  under  the 
lamps  Graham  perceived  that,  though  of  a  certain  age,  she  was 
undeniably  handsome.  His  heart  beat  more  quickly.  Surely 
this  was  the  Louise  Duval  he  sought. 

He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  was  presented  .n  due  form  to 
the  lady,  with  whom  Frederic  then  discreetly  left  him. 

"  ^lonsieur  Lemercier  tells  me  that  you  think  that  we  were 
once  acquainted  with  each  other." 

"  Nay,  Madame  ;  I  should  not  fail  to  recognize  you  were 
that  the  case.  A  friend  of  mine  had  the  honor  of  knowing  a  lady 
f>f  your  name  ;  and  should  I  be  fortunate  enough  to  meet  that 
ladV,  I  am  charged  with  a  commission  that  may  not  be  un- 
welcome to  her.  M.  Lemercier  tells  me  your  fiom  de  bapteme  is 
Louise." 

"  Louise  Corinne,  Monsieur." 

"  And  I  presume  that  Duval  is  the  name  you  take  from 
your  parents." 

"  No  ;  my  father's  name  was  Bernard.  I  married,  when  I 
was  a  mere  child,  M.  Duval,  in  the  wine-trade  at  Bordeaux." 

"  Ah,  indeed  ! "  said  Graham,  much  disappointed,  but  look- 
ing at  her  with  a  keen,  searching  eye,  which  she  met  with  a 
decided  frankness.  Evidently,  in  his  judgment,  she  was 
speaking  the  truth. 

"  You  know  English,  I  think,  Madame,"  he  resumed,  ad- 
dressing her  in  that  language. 

"  A  leetle — speak  unpen." 

"  Only  a  little  ?  " 

Madame  Duval  looked  puzzled,  and  replied  in  French,  with 
a  laugh,  "  Is  it  that  you  were  told  that  I  spoke  English  by  your 
countryman.  Milord  Sare  Boulby  ?  Fetit  scelemt,  I  hope  he 
is  well.  He  sends  you  a  commission  for  me — so  he  ought :  he 
behaved  to  me  like  a  monster." 

"  Alas  !  I  know  nothing  of  my  lord  Sir  Boulby.  Were  you 
never  in  England  yourself  .''  " 

"  Never  " — with  a  coquettish  side-glance — "  I   should  like 


THE  PARISIAXS.  ,  ^r, 

SO  much  to  go.  I  have  a  foible  for  the  English,  in  spite  of  that 
vi/ahi  peiit  ]jo\x\hy.  Who  is  it  gave  you  the  commission  for  me  ? 
Ha  !  I  guess — le  Capitaine  Nelton." 

"  No.  What  year,  Madame,  if  not  imjoertinent,  were  you 
at  Aix-la-Chapelle  ?  " 

"  You  mean  Baden  ?  I  was  there  seven  years  ago,  when  I 
met  le  Capitaine  Nelton — bel  licmme  nux  che^'cux  rouges." 

"  But  you  have  been  at  Aix  .?  " 

"  Never." 

"  I  have,  then,  been  mistaken,  Madame,  and  have  only  to 
offer  my  most  humble  apologies." 

"But  perhaps  you  will  favor  me  with  a  visit,  and  we  may 
on  further  conversation  find  that  you  are  not  mistaken.  I  can't 
stay  now,  for  I  am  engaged  to  dance  with  the  Belgian  of  whom, 
no  doubt,  M.  Lemercier  has  told  you," 

"  No,  Madame,  he  has  not." 

"  Well,  then,  he  will  tell  you.  The  Belgian  is  very  jealous. 
But  I  am  always  at  home  between  three  and  four.  This  is  my 
card." 

Graham  eagerly  took  the  card,  and  exclaimed,  "  Is  this  your 
own  handwriting,  Madame  .''  " 

"  Yes,  indeed." 

"  Tres  belle  ecriture"  said  Graham,  and  receded  with  a  cere- 
monious bow.  "  Anything  so  unlike  her  handwriting.  Another 
disappointment,"  muttered  the  Englishman,  as  the  lady  went 
back  to  the  ball. 

A  few  minutes  later  Graham  joined  Lemercier,  who  was 
talking  with  De  Passy  and  Ue  Breze. 

"  Well,"  said  Lemercier,  when  his  eye  rested  on  Graham, 
"  I  hit  the  right  nail  on  the  head  this  time,  eh  ?  " 

Graham  shook  his  head. 

"  What !     Is  she  not  the  right  Louise  Duval  "i " 

''  Certainly  not." 

The  Count  de  Passy  overheard  the  name,  and  turned. 
"  Louise, Duval,"  he  said,  "  does  Monsieur  Vane  know  a  Louise 
Duval." 

"  No ;  but  a  friend  asked  me  to  inquire  after  a  lady  of  that 
name  whom  he  had  met  many  years  ago  at  Paris." 

The  Count  mused  a  moment,  and  said,  "  Is  it  possible  that 
your  friend  knew  the  family  De  Mauleon  ?" 

"  I  really  can't  say  ;  what  then  ?  " 

"  The  old  Vicomte  de  Mauleon  was  one  of  my  most  intimate 
associates.     In  fact,  our  houses  are  connected.     And  he  was 


,-o  THE  PARISIANS. 

extremely  grieved,  jjoor  man,  when  his  daughter  Louise  married 
her  drawing-master,  Auguste  Duval." 

"  Her  draw  ing-master,  Auguste  Duval  ?  Pray  say  on.  I 
think  the  Louise  J)u\al  my  friend  knew  must  have  been  hei 
daughter.  She  was  the  only  child  of  a  drawing-master  or  artist 
named  Auguste  Djval,  and  probably  enough  her  Christian 
name  would  have  been  derived  from  her  mother.  A  Made- 
moiselle de  Mauleon,  then,  married  ^1.  Auguste  Duval  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  old  Vicomte  had  espoused  enpreniieres  noces  Made- 
moiselle Camille  de  Chavigny,  a  lady  of  birth  equal  to  his  own 
— had  by  her  one  daughter,  Louise.  I  recollect  her  well — a 
plain  girl,  with  a  high  nose  and  a  sour  expression.  She  w  as 
just  of  age  when  the  first  Vicomtesse  died,  and  by  the  mar- 
riage settlement  she  succeeded  at  once  to  her  mother's  fortune 
which  was  not  large.  The  Vicomte  was,  however,  so  poor  that 
the  loss  of  that  income  was  no  trifle  to  him.  Though  past  fift\' 
he  was  still  very  handsome.  Men  of  that  generation  did  not 
age  soon,  Monsieur,"  said  the  Count,  expanding  his  fine  chest 
and  laughing  exultingly. 

'•'  He  married,  en  secondes  noces,  a  lady  of  still  higher  birth 
than  the  first,  and  with  a  much  better  dot.  Louise  was  indig- 
nant at  this,  hated  her  stepmother  ;  and  when  a  son  was  bom 
by  the  second  marriage  she  left  the  paternal  roof,  went  to  re- 
side with  an  old  female  relative  near  the  Luxembourg,  and 
there  married  this  drawing-master.  Her  father  and  the  family 
did  all  they  could  to  prevent  it ;  but  in  these  democratic  days 
a  woman  who  has  attained  her  majorit}'  can,  if  she  persist  in  her 
determination,  marry  to  please  herself  and  disgrace  her  ances- 
tors. After  that  mesalliance  her  father  never  would  see  her 
again.  I  tried  in  vain  to  soften  him.  All  his  parental  affections 
settled  on  his  handsome  Victor.  Ah  !  you  are  too  young  to 
have  known  Victor  de  Mauleon  during  his  short  reign  in  Paris 
— as  roi  des  viveurs." 

"  Yes,  he  was  before  my  time  ;  but  I  have  heard  of  him  as  a 
5'()ung  man  of  fashion — said  to  be  ver)'  clever,  a  duellist,  and  a 
sort  of  Don  Juan." 

"  Exactly." 

"  And  I  remember  vaguely  to  have  heard  that  he  committed 
or  was  said  to  have  committed,  some  villanous  action  con- 
nected with  a  great  lady's  jewels,  and  to  have  left  Paris  in  con- 
sequence." 

"  Ah,  yes — a  sad  scrape.  At  that  time  there  was  a  political 
crisis ;  anything  against  a  noble  was  believed.  But  I  am  sure 
Victor  de  Mauleon  was  not  the  man  to  commit  a  larceny.     How- 


THE  PARISIANS.  151 

ever,  it  is  quite  true  that  he  left  Paris  ;  and  I  don't  know  wiiat  has 
become  of  him  since.  Here  he  touched  De  Brez<^,  who, 
though  still  near,  had  not  been  listening  to  the  conversation 
but  interchanging  jest  and  laughter  with  Lemercier  on  the  mot- 
ley scene  of  the  dance. 

•'  De  Breze,  have  you  ever  heard  what  became  of  poor  dear 
Victor  de  Mauleon  ? — you  knew  him." 

"  Knew  him .?  I  should  think  so.  Who  could  be  in  the 
great  world  and  not  know  le  beau  Victor .?  No  ;  after  he  van- 
ished I  never  heard  more  of  him, — doubtless  long  since  dead. 
A  good  hearted  fellow,  in  spite  of  all  his  sins." 

"  My  dear  M.  De  Breze,  did  you  know  his  half-s'lster  ?  " 
asked  Graham — "  a  Madame  Duval  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  never  heard  he  had  a  half-sister.  Halt  there  :  I 
recollect  I  met  Victor  in  the  garden  once  at  Versailles,  walking 
arm-in-arm  with  the  most  beautiful  girl  I  ever  saw  ;  and  when  I 
complimented  him  afterwards  at  the  Jockey  Club  on  his  new  con- 
quest, he  replied  very  gravely  that  the  young  lady  was  his  niece. 
'  Niece  .-' '  said  I  '  Why  there  can't  be  more  than  five  or  six 
years  between  you.'  '  About  that,  I  suppose,'  said  he ;  *  my 
half-sister,  her  mother,  was  more  than  twenty  years  older  than  I 
at  the  time  of  my  birth.'  1  doubted  the  truth  of  his  story 
at  the  time  ;  but  since  you  say  he  really  had  a  sister,  my  doubt 
wronged  him." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  this  same  young  lady  since  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"  How  many  years  ago  was  this  .''  " 

"  Let  me  see — about  twenty  or  twenty-one  years  ago. 
How  timetlies  !  " 

Graham  still  continued  to  question,  but  could  learn  no  fur- 
ther particulars.  He  turned  to  quit  the  gardens  just  as  the 
band  was  striking  up  for  a  fresh  dance,  a  wild  German  waltz 
air,  and  mingled  with  that  German  music  his  ear  caught  the 
sprightly  sounds  of  the  French  laugh,  one  laugh  distinguished 
from  the  rest  by  its  genuine  ring  of  light-hearted  joy — the  laugh 
he  had  heard  on  entering  the  gardens,  and  the  sound  of  which 
had  then  saddened  him.  Looking  toward  the  quarter  from 
which  it  came,  he  saw  the  "  Ondine  of  Paris."  She  was  not 
now  the  centre  of  a  group.  She  had  just  found  Gustave  Rameau 
and  was  clinging  to  his  arm  with  a  look  of  happiness  in  her  face, 
frank  and  innocent  as  a  child's.  And  so  they  passed  amid  the 
dancers  down  a  solitary  lamp-lit  alley,  till  lost  to  the  English- 
man's lingering  gaze. 


1^2  TTTE  PAKISTAXS. 


CHAPTER  X. 


The  next  morning  Graham  sent  again  for  M,  Renard. 

"  Well,"  he  cried,  when  that  dignitary  appeared  and  took  a 
seat  beside  him  ;  "  chance  has  favored  me." 

"  I  always  counted  on  cliance,  Monsieur.  Chance  has  more 
wit  in  its  little  finger  than  the  Paris  police  in  its  whole  body." 

"  I  have  ascertained  the  relations,  on  the  mother's  side,  of 
Louise  Duval,  and  the  only  question  is  how  to  get  at  them." 

Here  Graham  related  what  he  had  heard,  and  ended  by 
saying,  "  This  Victor  de  Mauleon  is  therefore  my  Louise  Duval's 
uncle.  He  was,  no  doubt,  taking:  charsre  of  her  in  the  year 
that  the  persons  mterested  in  her  discovery  lost  sight  of  her  in 
Paris ;  and  surely  he  must  know  what  became  of  her  after- 
wards." 

"  Very  probably  ;  and  chance  may  befriend  us  j^et  in  the 
discovery  of  Victor  de  Maule'on.  You  seem  not  to  know  tlie 
particulars  of  that  story  about  the  jewels  which  brought  him  into 
some  connection  with  the  police  and  resulted  in  his  disappear- 
ance from  Paris." 

"  No  ;  tell  me  the  particulars." 

"  Victor  de  MauMon  was  heir  to  some  sixt}'  or  seventy 
thousand  francs  a  year,  chiefly  on  the  mother's  side  ;  for  his  father, 
though  the  representative  of  one  of  the  most  ancient  houses  in 
France,  was  very  poor,  having  little  of  his  own  except  the  emol- 
uments of  an  appointment  in  the  court  of  Louis  Philippe, 

"But  before,  by  the  death  of  his  parents,  Victor  came  into 
that  inheritance,  he  very  largely  forestalled  it.  His  tastes 
were  magnificent.  He  took  to  '  sport ' — kept  a  famous  stud,  was 
a  great  favorite  with  the  English,  and  spoke  their  language 
fluently.  Indeed  he  was  considered  very  accomplished,  and  of 
considerable  intellectual  powers.  It  was  generally  said  that 
some  day  or  other,  when  he  had  sown  his  wild  oats,  he  would, 
if  he  took  to  politics,  be  an  eminent  man.  Altogether  he  was 
a  very  strong  creature.  That  was  a  very  strong  age  under 
Louis  Pliilippe.  The  viveurs  of  Paris  were  fine  types  for  the 
heroes  of  Dumas  and  Sue — full  of  animal  life  and  spirits. 
Victor  de  MauMon  was  a  romance  of  Dumas — incarnated," 


THE  rARISIANS.  T53 

"  M.  Renard,  forgive  me  that  I  did  not  before  do  justice  to 
your  taste  in  polite  literature." 

"  Monsieur,  a  man  in  my  profession  does  not  attain  ever  to 
my  humble  eminence  if  he  be  not  something  else  than  a  pro- 
fessional. He  must  study  mankind  wherever  they  are  described 
— even  in  les  romans.  To  return  to  Victor  de  Mauleon. 
Though  he  was  a  '  sportman,'  a  gambler,  a  Don  Juan,  a  duelist, 
nothing  was  ever  said  against  his  honor.  On  the  contrary,  on 
matters  of  honor  he  was  a  received  oracle  ;  and  even  though  he 
had  fought  several  duels  (that  was  the  age  of  duels),  and  was 
reported  without  a  superior,  almost  without  an  equal,  in  either 
weapon — the  sword  or  the  pistol — he  is  said  never  to  have 
wantonly  provoked  an  encounter,  and  to  have  so  used  his 
skill  that  he  contrived  never  to  slay,  nor  even  gravely  to  wound 
an  antagonist. 

"  I  remember  one  instance  of  his  generosity  in  this  respect, 
for  it  was  much  talked  of  at  the  time.  One  of  your  country- 
men, who  had  never  handled  a  fencing-foil  nor  fired  a  pistol, 
took  offence  at  something  M.  de  Mauleon  had  said  in  dispar- 
agement of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  and  called  him  out. 
Victor  de  Mauleon  accepted  the  challenge,  discharged  his 
pistol,  not  in  the  air — that  might  have -been  an  affront — but 
so  as  to  be  wide  of  the  mark,  walked  up  to  the  lines  to  be  shot 
at,  and,  when  missed,  said,  '  Excuse  the  susceptibility  of  a 
Frenchman,  loath  to  believe  that  his  countiymen  can  be 
beaten  save  by  accident,  and  accept  every  apology  one  gentle- 
man can  make  to  another  for  having  forgotten  the  respect  clue 
to  one  of  the  most  renowned  of  your  national  heroes.'  The 
Englishman's  name  was  Vane.  Could  it  have  been  your 
father  ? " 

"  Very  probably  ;  just  like  my  father  to  call  out  any  man 
who  insulted  the  honor  of  his  countiy,  as  represented  by  its 
men.     I  hope  the  two  combatants  became  friends  ?  " 

"  That  I  never  heard  ;  the  duel  was  over — there  my  story 
ends." 

"  Pray  go  on." 

"  One  day — it  was  in  the  midst  of  political  events  which 
would  have  silenced  most  subjects  of  private  gossip — the  beau 
monde  was  startled  by  the  news  that  the  Vicomte  (he  was 
then,  by  his  father's  death,  Vicomte)  de  Mauleon  had  been 
given  into  the  custody  of  the  police  on  the   charge  of  stealing 

the  jewels  of  the  Duchesse  de (the  wife  of  a  distinguished 

foreigner).  It  seems  that  some  days  before  this  event  the 
Due,  wishing  to  make   Madame  his  spouse  an  agreeable   sur 


,  -  _,  THE  PARISIAN'S. 

}3rise,  had  resolved  to  have  a  diamond  necklace  belonging  to 
her,  and  which  was  of  setting  so  old-fashioned  that  she  had 
not  lately  worn  it,  reset  for  her  birthday.  He  therefore 
secretly  possessed  himself  of  the  key  to  an  iron  safe  in  a 
cabinet  adjoining  her  dressing-room  (in  which  safe  her  more 
valuable  jewels  were  kept),  and  took  from  it  the  necklace. 
Imagine  his  dismay  when  the  jeweller  in  the  Rue  Vivienne 
to  whom  he  carried  it  recognized  the  pretended  diamonds  as 
imitation  paste  which  he  himself  had  some  days  previously 
inserted  into  an  empty  setting  brought  to  him  by  a  Monsieur 
with  whose  name  he  was  unacquainted.  The  Duchesse  was  at 
that  time  in  delicate  health  ;  and  as  the  Due's  suspicions 
naturally  fell  on  the  servants,  especially  on  the  femtne  de 
c/ia7nbre,  who  was  in  great  favor  with  his  wife,  he  did  not  like 
to  alarm  Madame,  nor  through  her  to  put  the  servants  on 
their  guard.     He    resolved,  therefore,  to  place  the  matter  in 

the  hands  of    the  famous   ,    who  was   then   the    pride 

and  ornament  of  the  Parisian  police.  And  the  very  night 
afterwards  the  Vicomte  de  Maule'on  was  caught  and  appre- 
hended in  the  cabinet  where  the  jewels  were  kept,  and  to 
which  he  had  got  access  by  a  false  key,  or  at  least  a  duplicate 
key,  found  in  his  possession.  I  should  observe  that  M.  de 
Mauleon  occupied  the  etitresol  in  the  same  hotel  in  which  the 
upper  rooms  were  devoted  to  the  Due  and  Duchesse  and  their 
suite.  As  soon  as  this  charge  against  the  Vicomte  was  made 
known  (and  it  was  known  the  next  morning),  the  extent  of  his 
debts  and  the  utterness  of  his  ruin  (before  scarcely  conjectured 
or  wholly  unheeded)  became  public  through  the  medium  of  the 
journals,  and  furnished  an  obvious  motive  for  the  crime  of 
which  he  was  accused.  We  Parisians,  Monsieur,  are  subject 
to  the  most  startling  reactions  of  feeling.  The  men  we  adore 
one  day  we  execrate  the  next.  The  Vicomte  passed  at  once 
from  the  popular  admiration  one  bestows  on  a  hero,  to  the 
popular  contempt  with  which  one  regards  a  petty  larcener. 
Society  wondered  how  it  had  ever  condescended  to  receive  into 
its  bosom  the  gambler,  the  duelist,  the  Don  Juan.  However, 
one  compensation  in  the  way  of  amusement  he  might  still 
afford  to  society  for  the  grave  injuries  he  had  done  it.  Society 
would  attend  his  trial,  witness  his  demeanor  at  the  bar,  and 
watch  the  expression  of  his  face  when  he  was  sentenced  to  the 
galleys.  Put,  Monsieur,  this  wretch  completed  the  measure  of 
his  iniquities.  He  was  not  trie*.,  at  all.  The  Due  and  Duch- 
esse quitted  Paris  for  Spain,  and  the  Due  instructed  his  lawyer 
to  withdraw  his  charge,  stating  his  conviction    of  the  Vicomte's 


THE  r  AN  LSI  AX S. 


'5S 


complete  innocence  of  any  other  offence  than  that  which  he 
himself  had  confessed." 

"  What  did  the  Viconite  confess  ?  you  omitted  to  state 
that." 

"  The  Vicomte,  when  apprehended,  confessed  that,  smitten 
by  an  insane  passion  for  the  Duchesse,  which  she  had,  on  his 
presuming  to  declare  it,  met  with  indignant  scorn,  he  had 
taken  advantage  of  his  lodgment  in  the  same  house  to  admit 
himself  into  the  cabinet  adjoining  her  dressing-room  by  means 
of  a  key  which  he  had  procured  made  from  an  impression  of 
the  key-hole   taken  in  wax. 

"  No  evidence  in  support  of  any  other  charge  against  the 
Vicomte  was  forthcoming — nothing,  in  short,  beyond  the  in- 
fraction du  domicile  caused  by  the  madness  of  youthful  love  and 
for  which  there  was  no  prosecution.  The  law,  therefore,  could 
have  little  to  say  against  him.  But  society  was  more  rigid  ; 
and,  exceedingly  angry  to  find  that  a  man  who  had  been 
so  conspicuous  for  luxury  should  prove  to  be  a  pauper,  in- 
sisted on  believing  that  M.  de  Mauleon  was  guilty  of  the 
meaner,  though  not  perhaps,  in  the  eyes  of  husbands  and 
fathers,  the  more  heinous  of  the  two  offences.  I  presume 
that  the  Vicomte  felt  that  he  had  got  into  a  dilemma  from 
which  no  pistol-shot  or  sword-thrust  could  free  him,  for  he 
left  Paris  abruptly,  and  has  not  since  reappeared.  The  sale 
of  his  stud  and  eiTects  sufficed,  I  believe,  to  pay  his  debts,  for 
I  will  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  they  were  paid." 

"  But  though  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon  has  disappeared,  he 
must  have  left  relations  at  Paris,  who  would  perhaps  know 
what  has  become  of  him  and  his  niece." 

"  I  doubt  it.  He  had  no  very  near  relations.  The  nearest 
was  an  old  cclibataire  of  the  same  name,  from  whoin  he  had 
some  expectations,  but  who  died  shortly  after  this  esclandre,  and 
did  not  name  the  Vicomte  in  his  will.  M.Victor  had  numerous 
connections  among  the  highest  families — the  Rochebriants, 
Chavignys,  Vandemars,  Beauvilliers.  But  they  are  not  likely 
to  have  retained  any  connection  with  a  ruined  vaurien,  and  still 
less  with  a  niece  of  his  who  was  the  child  of  a  drawing-master. 
But  now  you  have  given  me  a  clue,  I  will  try  to  follow  it  up. 
We  must  find  the  Vicomte,  and  I  am  not  without  hope  of  doing 
so.  Pardon  me  if  I  decline  to  say  more  at  present.  I  would 
not  raise  false  expectations.  But  in  a  w'eek  or  two  I  will  have 
the  honor  to  call  again  upon  Monsieur." 

"  Wait  one  instant.  You  have  really  a  hope  of  discovering 
ISI  de  Mauldon  .?  " 


iS^ 


THE  FARIS/AA^S. 


"  Yes.     I  cannot  say  more  at  present." 

M.  Renard  departed. 

Still,  that  hope,  however  faint  it  might  prove,  served  to 
reanimate  Graham  ;  and  with  that  hope  in  his  heart,  as  if  a  load 
had  been  lifted  from  its  mainspring,  returned  instinctively  to 
the  thought  of  Isaura.  Whatever  seemed  to  promise  un  early 
discharge  of  the  commission  connected  with  the  discovery  of 
Louise  Duval  seemed  to  bring  Isaura  nearer  to  him,  or  at  least 
to  ;ixcuse  his  yearning  desire  to  see  more  of  her — to  understand 
her  better.  Faded  into  thin  air  was  the  vague  jealousy  of 
Gustave  Rameau  which  he  had  so  unreasonably  conceived  ;  he 
felt  as  if  it  were  impossible  that  the  man  whom  the  "  Ondine 
of  Paris  "  claimed  as  her  lover  could  dare  to  woo  or  hope  to 
win  an  Isaura.  He  even  forgot  the  friendship  with  the  eloquent 
denouncer  of  the  marriage-bond,  which  a  little  while  ago  had 
seemed  to  him  an  unpardonable  offence  ;  he  remembered  only 
the  lovely  face,  so  innocent,  yet  so  intelligent;  only  the  sweet 
voice  which  had  for  the  first  time  breathed  music  into  his  own 
soul ;  only  the  gentle  hand  whose  touch  had  for  the  first  time 
sent  through  his  veins  the  thrill  which  distinguishes  from  all 
her  sex  the  woman  whom  we  love.  He  went  forth  elated  and 
joyous,  and  took  his  way  to  Lsaura's  villa.  As  he  went,  the 
leaves  of  the  trees  under  which  he  passed  seemed  stirred  by 
the  soft  May  breeze  in  sympathy  with  his  own  delight.  Perhaps 
it  was  rather  the  reverse:  his  own  silent  delight  sympathized 
with  all  delight  in  awakening  nature.  The  lover  seeking  re- 
conciliation with  the  loved  one  from  whom  some  trifle  has 
unreasonably  estranged  him,  in  a  cloudless  day  of  May, — if  he 
be  not  happv  enough  to  feel  a  brotherhood  in  all  things  happy 
— a  leaf  in  bloom,  a  bird  in  song, — then  indeed  he  may  call 
himself  lover,  but  he  does  not  know  what  is  love. 


THE  rARISIANS,  157 


BOOK     IV. 

CHAPTER  I. 

FROM    ISAURA    CICOGNA   TO    MADAME    DE   GRANTMESNIL. 

It  is  many  days  since  I  wrote  to  yon,  and  but  for  youl 
delightful  note  just  received,  reproaching  nie  for  silence,  I 
should  still  be  under  the  spell  of  that  awe  which  certain  words 
of  M.  Savarin  were  well  fitted  to  produce.  Chancing  to  ask 
him  if  he  had  written  to  you  lately,  he  said,  with  that  laugh  of 
his,  good-humoredly  ironical,  "  No,  Mademoiselle,  I  am  not 
one  of  the  Facheux  whom  Moliere  has  immortalized.  If  the 
meeting  of  lovers  should  be  sacred  from  the  intrusion  of  a 
third  person,  however  amiable,  more  sacred  still  should  be  the 
parting  between  an  author  and  his  work.  Madame  de 
Grantmesnil  is  in  that  moment  so  solemn  to  a  genius  earnest 
as  hers — she  is  bidding  farewell  to  a  companion  with  whom, 
once  dismissed  into  the  world,  she  can  never  converse  fami- 
liarly again  ;  it  ceases  to  be  her  companion  when  it  becomes 
ours.  Do  not  let  us  disturb  the  last  hours  they  will  pass- 
together." 

These  words  struck  me  mucli.  I  suppose  there  is  truth  in 
them.  I  can  comprehend  that  a  work  which  has  long  been  all 
in  all  to  its  author,  concentrating  his  thoughts,  gathering  round 
it  the  hopes  and  fears  of  his  inmost  heart,  dies,  as  it  were,  to 
him  when  he  has  completed  its  life  for  others,  and  launched  it 
inio  a  world  estranged  from  the  solitude  in  which  it  was  born 
and  formed.  I  can  almost  conceive  that,  to  a  writer  like  you, 
the  very  fame  which  attends  the  work  thus  sent  forth  chills 
your  own  love  for  it.  The  characters  you  created  in  a  fairy-land, 
known  but  to  yourself,  must  lose  something  of  their  mysterious 
charm  when  you  hear  them  discussed  and  cavilled  at,  blamed 
or  praised,  as  if  they  were  really  the  creatures  of  streets  and 
salons. 

I  wonder  if  hostile  criticism  pains  or  enrages  you  as  it  seems 


^rS  THE  PARTS  I  A  AS. 

to  do  such  other  authors  as  I  have  known.  M.  Savann,  for 
instance,  sets  down  in  his  tablets  as  an  enemy  to  whom  ven- 
geance is  due  the  smallest  scribbler  who  wounds  his  self-love, 
and  says  frankly,  "  To  me  praise  is  food,  dispraise  is  poison. 
Him  who  feeds  me  I  pay  ;  him  who  poisons  me  I  break  on  the 
wheel."  M.  Savarin  is,  indeed,  a  skilful  and  energetic  adminis- 
trator to  his  own  reputation.  He  deals  with  it  as  if  it  were  a 
kingdom — establishes  fortifications  for  its  defence — enlists 
soldiers  to  fight  for  it.  He  is  the  soul  and  centre  of  a  confeder- 
ation in  which  each  is  bound  to  defend  the  territor}'  of  the 
others,  and  all  those  territories  united  constitute  the  imjierial 
realm  of  M.  Savarin.  Don't  think  me  an  ungracious  satirist  in 
what  I  am  thus  saying  of  our  brilliant  friend.  It  is  not  I  who 
here  speak  ;  it  is  himself.  He  avows  his  policy  with  the  naivete 
which  makes  the  charm  of  his  style  as  writer.  "  It  is  the 
greatest  mistake,"  he  said  to  me  yesterday,  "  to  talk  of  the 
Republic  of  Letters.  Every  author  who  wins  a  name  is  a 
sovereign  in  his  own  domain,  be  it  large  or  small.  Woe  to  any 
republican  who  wants  to  dethrone  me  !  "  Somehow  or  other, 
when  M.  Savarin  thus  talks  I  feel  as  if  he  were  betraying  the 
cause  of  genius.  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  regard  literature  as 
a  craft — to  me  it  is  a  sacred  mission  ;  and  in  hearing  this 
"so\ereign  ''  boast  of  the  tricks  by  which  he  maintains  his  state, 
I  seem  to  listen  to  a  priest  who  treats  as  imposture  the  religion 
he  professes  to  teach.  M.  Savarin's  favorite  ela'e  now  is  a 
young  contributor  to  his  journal,  named  Gustave  Ranieau.  M. 
Savarin  said  the  other  day  in  my  hearing,  "  I  and  my  set  were 
Young  France — Gustave  Rameau  and  his  set  are  Nnv  ParisP 

"  And  what  is  the  distinction  between  the  one  and  the 
other.?"  asked  mv  American  friend,  Mrs.  Morlev. 

"  The  set  of  '  Young  France,'  "  answered  M.  Savarin,  "  had 
in  it  the  hearty  consciousness  of  youth  ;  it  was  bold  and 
vehement,  with  abundant  vitality  and  animal  spirits  ;  what- 
ever may  be  said  against  it  in  other  respects,  the  power  of 
thews  and  sinews  must  be  conceded  to  its  chief  representa- 
tives. But  the  set  of  '  New  Paris  '  has  very  bad  health,  and 
very  indifferent  spirits.  Still,  in  its  way,  it  is  very  clever  ;  it 
can  sting  and  bite  as  keenly  as  if  it, were  big  and  strong. 
Rameau  is  the  most  promising  member  of  the  set.  He  will 
be  pojiular  in  his  time,  because  he  represents  a  good  deal  ol 
the  mind  of  his  time — viz,  the  mind  and  the  time  of  '  New 
Paris.'  " 

Do  you  know  anything  of  this  young  Rameau's  writings  .' 
You   do  not   know  himself,  for  he  told  me  so,  expressing   a 


THE  PARfSfAiXS.  i  i;g 

desire  that  was  evidently  very  sincere  to  find  some  occasion 
on  v/hich  td  render  you  iiis  homage.  He  said  this  the  first 
time  I  met  him  at  M.  Savarin's,  and  before  he  knew  how  dear 
to  me  are  yourself  and  your  fame.  He  came  and  sat  by  me 
after  dinner,  and  won  my  interest  at  once  by  asking  me  if  1 
had  heard  that  you  were  busied  on  a  new  work  ;  and  ihen, 
without  waiting  for  my  answer,  he  launched  forth  into  praises 
of  you,  which  made  a  notable  contrast  to  the  scorn  with  which 
he  spoke  of  all  your  contemporaries,  except  indeed  M.  Savarin, 
who,  however,  might  not  have  been  pleased  to  hear  his  favorite 
pupil  style  him  "  a  great  writer  in  small  things."  I  spare  you 
his  epigrams  on  Dumas  and  Victor  Hugo  and  my  beloved 
Lamartine.  Though  his  talk  was  showy,  and  dazzled  me  at 
first,  I  soon  got  rather  tired  of  it — even  the  first  time  we  met. 
Since  then  I  have  seen  him  very  often,  not  only  at  M.  Savarin's, 
but  he  calls  here  at  least  every  other  day,  and  we  have  become 
quite  good  friends.  He  gains  on  acquaintance  so  far,  that 
one  cannot  help  feeling  how  much  he  is  to  be  pitied.  He  is 
so  envious  !  and  the  envious  must  be  so  unhappy.  And  then 
he  is  at  once  so  near  and  so  far  from  all  the  things  that  he 
envies.  He  longs  for  riches  and  luxury,  and  can  only  as  yet 
earn  a  bare  competence  by  his  labors.  Therefore  he  hates 
the  rich  and  luxurious.  His  literary  successes,  instead  of 
pleasing  him,  render  him  miserable  by  their  contrast  with  the 
fame  of  the  authors  whom  he  envies  and  assails.  He  has  a 
beautiful  head,  of  which  he  is  conscious,  but  it  is  joined  to  a 
body  without  strength  or  grace.  He  is  conscious  of  this  too  : 
but  it  is  cruel  to  go  on  with  this  sketch.  You  can  see  at 
once  the  kind  of  person  who,  whether  he  inspire  affection  or 
dislike,  cannot  fail  to  create  an  interest — painful  but  compas- 
sionate. 

You  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  Dr.  C.  considers  my  health 
so  improved  that  I  may  next  year  enter  fairly  on  the  profes- 
sion for  which  I  was  intended  and  trained.  Yet  I  still  feel 
hesitating  and  doubtful.  To  give  myself  wholly  up  to  the  art 
ui  which  I  am  told  I  could  excel,  must  alienate  me  entirely 
from  the  ambition  that  yearns  for  fields  in  which,  alas  !  it  may 
perhaps  never  appropriate  to  itself  a  rood  for  culture — only 
wander,  lost  in  a  vague  fairy-land,  to  which  it  has  not  the  fairy's 
birthright.  O  thou  great  Enchantress,  to  whom  are  equally 
subject  the  streets  of  Paris  and  the  realm  of  Faerie — thou  who 
bast  sounded  to  the  deeps  that  circumfluent  ocean  called  "  jDracti- 
dl  human  life,"  and  hast  taught  the  acutest  of  its  navigators  to 
consider  how  far  its  courses  are  guided  by  orbs  in  heaven — canst 


i6o 


THE  PAK/SIAXS. 


thou  solve  this  riddle,  which,  if  it  perplexes   me,  must  perpiex 
so  many  ?    What  is  the  real  distinction  between  the  rare  genius 
and  the  conunonaltv  of  human  souls  that   feel   to  the  quick  all 
xW.  grandest  and  d'ivinest  tlnngs   which  the   rare  genius  places 
before    them,    sighing  within   themselves,    "This   rare    genius 
does  but  express  that  which  was   previously  familiar  to  us,  so 
far  as  thought  and  sentiment  extend  ?  "  Nay,  the  genius  itself, 
however  eloquent,  never  does,  never  can,  express  the  whole  of 
the   thought  or  the    sentiment   it   interprets ;  on   the   contrary, 
llie   greater    the  genius    is,   the    more    it  leaves    a   something 
of    incomplete  satisfaction   on  our   minds — it  promises  so  much 
more   than   it  performs,   it  implies  so  much   more   than  it  an- 
nounces.    1  am  impressed  with  the  truth   of   what   I   thus  say 
in  proportion  as  I  reperuse  and  restudy  the  greatest  writers  that 
have  come  within    my   narrow   range  of   reading.     And   by  the 
^neatest  writers  1  mean  those  who  are  not  exclusively  reasoners 
(of  such  I  cannot  judge),  nor  mere  poets  (of   whom,  so   far   as 
concerns  the  union  of  words  with  nmsic,   I  ought  to  be  able  to 
judge),  but  the  few  who  unite    reason  and  poetry  and  appeal  at 
once  to  the  common  sense  of  the  multitude   and   the   imagina- 
tion of  the  few.     The  highest  type  of  this  union  to  me  is  Shak- 
speare  ;  and  1  can  comprehend  the  justice   of   no   criticisni  on 
him  which  does  not  allow  this  sense   of  incomplete  satisfaction 
augmenting  in  proportion  as   the   poet  soars  to   his  highest.     I 
ask  again,  in  what  consists  this  distinction  between   the  rare 
genius  and   the  commonalty  of   minds   that  exclaun,  "  He^  ex- 
presses what  we  feel,  but  never  the  whole  of  what  we  feel  ?  "   Is 
it  the  mere  power  over  language,  a  large  knowledge  of  diction- 
aries, a  finer  ear  for  period  and  cadence,  a  more  artistic  craft 
in  casing  our  thoughts  and  sentiments  in  well-selected  words  ? 
Is  it  true  what  Buffon  says,  "  that  the  style  is  the  man  ?  "     Is  it 
true  what  I  am  told  Goethe   said,  "  Poetry   is  form  .> "  I  cannot 
believe  this  ;  and  if  3'ou   tell  me   it  is  true,  then   I  no  longer 
pine  to   be  a  writer.     But  if  it   be  not  true,  explain  to   me   how 
it   is  that  the  greatest  genius   is    popular  in  proportion   as  it 
makes  itself  akin  to  us  by  uttering  in  better  words  than  we  em- 
ploy that  which  was  already  within  us,   brings  to  light  what  in 
our  souls  was  latent,  and  does  but  correct,  beautify,  and  publish 
the  correspondence  which   an   ordinary   reader  carries   on  pri- 
vaiely  every  day  between  himself  and  his  mind  or  his  heart.     If 
this  superiority  in  the  genius  be  but  style  and  form,  I  abandon 
my  dream  of  being  something  else   than  a  singer  of  words  by 
another  to  the   music  of  another.  .  But  then,   what  then  ?    My 
Knowledge  of  books  and  art  is  wonderfully  small.     What  little 


THE  PAKISIAXS.  ,6» 

I  do  know  I  gather  from  very  few  books,  and  from  what  I  hea- 
said  by  the  few  worth  listening  to  whom  I  happen  to  meet ;  and 
out  of  these,  in  solitude  and  reverie,  not  by  conscious  effort,  1 
arrive  at  some  results  which  appear  to  my  inexperience  orig- 
inal. Perhaps,  indeed,  they  have  the  same  kind  of  originality 
as  the  musical  compositions  of  amateurs  who  effect  a  cantata 
or  a  quartette  made  up  of  borrowed  details  from  great  masters 
and  constituting  a  whole  so  original  that  no  real  master  would 
deign  to  own  it.  Oh,  if  I  could  get  you  to  understand  how  un- 
nettled,  how  struggling,  my  whole  nature  at  this  moment  is  !  I 
wonder  what  is  the  sensation  of  the  chrysalis  which  has  been  a 
silkworm,  when  it  first  feels  the  new  wings  stirring  within  its 
shell — wings,  alas  !  that  are  but  those  of  the  humblest  and 
shortest-lived  sort  of  niolh,  scarcely  born  into  daylight  before  il 
dies.  Could  it  reason,  it  might  regret  its  earlier  life,  and  say, 
"  Better  be  the  silkworm  than  the  moth." 

F'roin  the  Same  to  iJic  Same. 

Have  you  known  well  any  English  people  in  the  course  of 
your  life?  I  say  well,  for  you  must  have  had  acquaintance 
with  many.  But  it  seems  to  me  so  difficult  to  know  an  En- 
glishman well.  Even  I,  who  so  loved  and  revered  Mr.  Selby — • 
I,  whose  childhood  was  admited  into  his  companionship  by 
that  love  which  places  ignorance  and  knowledge,  infancy  and 
age,  upon  ground  so  equal  that  heart  touches  heart — cannot 
say  that  I  understand  the  English  character  to  anything  like 
the  extent  to  which  I  fancy  I  understand  the  Italian  and  the 
French.  Between  us  of  the  Continent  and  them  of  the  island 
the  British  Channel  always  flows.  There  is  an  Englishman 
here  to  whom  I  have  been  introduced,  whom  I  have  met, 
though  but  seldom,  in  that  society  which  bounds  the  Paris 
world  to  me.  Pray,  pray  tell  me,  did  you  ever  know,  ever 
meet  him  t  His  name  is  Graham  Vane.  He  is  the  only  son, 
I  am  told,  of  a  man  who  was  a  celebrite  in  England  as  an  orator 
and  statesman,  and  on  both  sides  he  belongs  to  the  haute  aris- 
tocraiie.  He  himself  has  that  indescribable  air  and  mien  to 
which  we  apply  the  epithet  "  distinguished."  In  the  most 
crowded  salon  the  eye  would  fix  on  him  and  involuntarily 
follow  his  movements.  Yet  his  manners  are  frank  and  simple, 
wholly  without  the  stiffness  or  reserve  which  are  said  to  char- 
acterize the  English.  There  is  an  inborn  dignity  in  his  bearing 
which  consists  in  the  absence  of  all  dignity  assumed.  But 
what  strikes  me  most  in  this   Englishman  is  an  expression  of 


J  52  ^^^i^  FAKISIAAS. 

countenance  which  the  English  depict  by  the  word  "  open"— 
that  expression  which  inspires  you  with  a  belief  in  the  ex- 
istence of  sincerity.  Mrs.  Morley  said  of  liini,  in  that  poetic 
extravagance  of  phrase  by  which  the  Americans  startle  the 
English,  "  that  man's  forehead  would  light  up  the  Mammoth 
Cave."  Do  you  not  know,  Eulalie,  what  it  is  to  us  cultivators 
of  art — art  being  the  expression  of  truth  through  fiction — to 
come  into  the  atmosphere  of  one  of  those  souls  in  which  Truth 
stands  out  bold  and  beautiful  in  itself  and  needs  no  idealiza- 
tion through  fiction  .''  Oh,  how  near  we  should  be  to  heaven 
could  we  live  daily,  hourly,  in  the  presence  of  one  the  honesty 
of  whose  word  we  could  never  doubt,  the  authority  of  whose 
word  we  could  never  disobey  !  Mr.  Vane  professes  not  to 
understand  music — not  even  to  care  for  it,  except  rarely — 
and  yet  he  spoke  of  its  influence  over  others  with  an  enthu- 
siasm that  half  charmed  me  once  more  back  to  my  destined 
calling — nay,  might  have  charmed  me  wholly,  but  that  he 
seemed  to  think  that  I — that  any  public  singer — must  be  a 
creature  apart  from  the  world — the  world  in  which  such  men 
live.     Perhaps  that  is  true. 


CHAPTER  II. 

It  was  one  of  those  lovely  noons  toward  the  end  of  May  in 
which  a  rural  suburb  has  the  mellow  charm  of  summer  to  him 
who  escapes  awhile  from  the  streets  of  a  crowded  capit;il.  The 
Londoner  knows  its  charm  when  he  feels  his  tread  on  the  soft- 
ening swards  of  the  Vale  of  Health,  or  pausing  at  Richmond 
under  the  budding  willow,  gazes  on  tlie  river  glittering  in  the 
warmer  sunlight,  and  hears  from  the  villa-gardens  behind  him 
the  brief  trill  of  the  blackbird.  But  the  suburbs  round  Paris 
are,  I  think,  a  yet  more  pleasing  relief  from  the  metropolis  ; 
they  are  more  easily  reached,  and  I  know  not  why,  but  they 
seem  more  rural,  perhaps  because  the  contrast  of  their  repose 
with  the  stir  left  behind— of  their  redundance  of  leaf  and 
blosson\,  compared  with  the  prim  efnorescence  of  trees  in  the 
Boulevards  and  Tuileries — is  more  striking.  However  that 
may  be,  when  Graham  reached  the  pretty  suburb  in  which 
Isaura  dwelt,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  all  the  wheels  of  the  loud 
busy  life  were  suddenly  smitten  still.     The  hour  was  yet  early; 


rilE  PARISIANS. 


163 


he  felt  sure  that  he  should  find  Isaura  at  home.     Tlie  garden- 


t)' 


gate  stood  unfastened  and  ajar;  he  pushed  it  aside  and  entered. 
I  think  I  have  before  said  that  the  garden  of  the  villa  was 
shut  out  from  the  road,  and  the  gaze  of  neighbors,  by  a  wall 
and  thick  belts  of  evergreens  ;  it  stretched  behind  the  house 
somewhat  far  for  the  garden  of  a  suburban  villa.  He  paused 
when  he  had  passed  the  gateway,  for  he  heard  in  the  distance 
the  voice  of  one  singing — singing  low,  singing  plaintively. 
He  knew  it  was  the  voice  of  Isaura ;  he  passed  on,  leaving  the 
house  behind  him,  and  tracking  the  voice  till  he  reached  the 
singer, 

Isaura  was  seated  within  an  arbor  towards  the  farther  end 
of  the  garden — an  arbor  which,  a  little  later  in  the  year,  must 
indeed  be  delicate  and  dainty  with  lush  exuberance  of  jessamine 
and  woodbine  ;  now  into  its  iron  trellis-  work  leaflet  and  flowers 
were  insinuating  their  gentle  way.  Just  at  the  entrance  one 
white  rose — a  winter  rose  that  had  mysteriously  survived  its 
relations — opened  its  pale  hues  frankly  to  the  noonday  sun. 
Graham  approached  slowly,  noiselessly,  and  the  last  note  of 
the  song  had  ceased  when  he  stood  at  the  entrance  of  the 
arbor,  Isaura  did  not  perceive  hini  at  first,  for  her  face  was 
bent  downward  musingly,  as  was  often  her  wont  after  singing, 
especially  when  alone.  But  she  felt  that  the  place  was  dark- 
ened, that  something  stood  between  her  and  the  sunshine. 
She  raised  her  face,  and  a  quick  flush  mantled  over  it  as  she 
uttered  his  name,  not  loudly,  not  as  in  surprise,  but  inwardly 
and  whisperingly,  as  in  a  sort  of  fear. 

*'  Pardon  me,  Mademoiselle"  said  Graham  entering  ;  "but 
I  heard  your  voice  as  1  came  into  the  garden,  and  it  drew  me 
onward  involuntarily.  What  a  lovely  air !  and  what  simple 
sweetness  in  such  of  the  words  as  reached  me  !  I  am  so 
ignorant  of  music  that  you  must  not  laugh  at  me  if  I  ask 
whose  is  the  music  and  whose  are  the  words.  Probably  both 
are  so  well  known  as  to  convict  me  of  a  barbarous  ignorance." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Isaura,  with  a  still  heightened  color,  and  in 
accents  embarrassed  and  hesitating.  "  Both  the  words  and 
music  are  by  an  unkr.own  and  very  humble  composer,  yet  not, 
indeed,  quite  original ;  they  have  not  even  that  merit — at  least 
they  were  suggested  by  a  popular  song  in  the  Neapolitan  dia- 
lect which  is  said  to  be  very  old." 

"  I  don't  know  if  I  caught  the  true  meaning  of  the  words,  for 
they  seemed  to  me  to  convey  a  more  subtle  and  refined  senti- 
ment than  is  conimon  in  the  popular  songs  of  Southern  Italy." 


iC4 


THE  PARISIANS. 


"  The  sentiment  in  the  original  is  changed  in  the  para- 
phrase, and  not,  I  fear,  improved  by  the  change." 

"  Will  you  explain  to  me  the  sentiment  in  both,  and  let  nie 
judge  which  I  prefer  ?  " 

"  In  the  Neapolitan  song  a  young  fisherman,  who  has  moored 
his  boat  under  a  rock  on  the  sliore,  sees  a  beautiful  face  below 
the  surface  of  the  waters  ;  he  imagines  it  to  be  that  of  a  Nereid, 
and  casts  in  his  net  to  catch  this  supposed  nymph  of  the  ocean. 
He  only  disturbs  the  waters,  loses  the  image,  and  brings  up  a 
few  common  fishes.  He  returns  home  disaipointed,  and  very 
much  enamoured  of  the  supposed  Nereid.  The  next  day  he 
goes  again  to  the  same  place,  and  discovers  that  the  face  which 
had  so  charmed  him  was  that  of  a  mortal  girl's  reflected  on  the 
waters  from  the  rock  behind  him,  on  which  she  had  her  home. 
The  original  air  is  arch  and  lively  ;  just  listen  to  it."  And  Is- 
aura  warbled  one  of  those  artless  and  somewhat  meagre  tunes 
to  which  light-stringed  instruments  are  the  fitting  accompani- 
ment. 

"That,"  said  Graham,  "  is  a  different  music  indeed  from  the 
other,  which  is  deep  and  plaintive  and  goes  to  the  heart. 

"  But  do  you  not  see  how  the  words  have  been  altered  ?  In 
the  song  you  first  heard  me  singing,  the  fisherman  goes  again 
to  the  spot,  again  and  again  sees  the  face  in  the  water,  again 
and  again  seeks  to  capture  the  Nereid,  and  never  knows  to  the 
last  that  the  face  was  that  of  the  mortal  on  the  rock  close 
behind  him,  and  which  he  passed  by  without  notice  every  day. 
Deluded  by  an  ideal  image,  the  real  one  escapes  from  his  eye." 

"  Is  the  verse  that  is  recast  meant  to  symbolize  a  moral  in 
love  ?" 

"  In  love  ?  nay,  I  know  not  ;  but  in  life,  yes — at  least  the 
life  of  the  artist." 

"  The  paraphase  of  the  original  is  yours,  Signorina — words 
and  music  both.  Am  I  not  right?  Your  silence  answers,  '  Yes.' 
Will  you  pardon  me  if  I  say  that,  though  there  can  be  no  doubt 
of  the  new  beauty  you  have  given  to  the  old  song,  I  think  that 
the  moral  of  the  old  was  the  sounder  one,  the  truer  to  human 
life  ?  We  do  not  go  on  to  the  last  duped  by  an  illusion.  If  en- 
amoured by  the  shadow  on  the  waters,  still  we  do  look  around 
us  and  discover  the  image  it  reflects." 

Isaura  shook  her  head  gently,  but  made  no  answer.  On  the 
table  before  her  there  were  a  few  myrtle-sprigs  and  one  or  two 
buds  from  the  last  winter  rose,  which  she  had  been  arranging 
into  a  simple  nosegay  ;  she  took  up  these,  and  abstractedly 
began  to  pluck  and  scatter  the  rose-leaves. 


THE  PARISIANS.  165 

"  Despise  the  coining  May  flowers  if  you  will,  they  will  soon 
be  so  plentiful,"  said  Graham  ;  "  but  do  not  cast  away  the  few 
blossoms  which  winter  has  so  kindly  spared,  and  which  even 
summer  will  not  give  again  ;"  and,  placing  his  hand  on  the  win- 
ter buds,  it  touched  hers — lightly,  indeed,  but  she  felt  the  touch; 
shrank  from  it,  colored,  and  rose  from  her  seat. 

"  The  sun  has  left  this  side  of  the  garden,  the  east  wind  is 
rising,  and  you  must  find  it  chilly  here,"  she  said,  in  an  altered 
tone.     "  Will  you  not  come  into  the  house  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  the  air  that  I  feel  chilly,"  said  Graham,  with  a 
half-smile  ;  "  I  almost  fear  that  my  prosaic  admonitions  have  dis- 
pleased you." 

"  They  were  not  prosaic  ;  and  they  were  kind  and  very  wise," 
she  added,  with  her  exquisite  laugh — laugh  so  wonderfully  sweet 
and  musical.  She  now  had  gained  the  entrance  of  the  a|;bor ; 
Graham  joined  her,  and  they  walked  towards  the  house.  He 
asked  her  if  she  had  seen  much  of  the  Savarins  since  they  had 
met, 

"  Once  or  twice  we  have  been  there  of  an  evening.  " 

"  And  encountered,  no  doubt,  the  illustrious  young  minstrel 
who  despises  Tasso  and  Corneille  ?  " 

"  M.  Rameau  ?  Oh,  yes  ;  he  is  constantly  at  the  Savarins'. 
Do  not  be  severe  on  him.  He  is  unhappy — he  is  struggling — 
he  is  soured.  An  artist  has  thorns  in  his  path  which  lookers-on 
do  not  heed." 

"All  people  have  thorns  in  their  path,  and  1  have  no  great 
respect  for  those  who  want  lookers-on  to  heed  them  whenever 
they  are  scratched.  But  M.  Rameau  seems  to  me  one  of  those 
writers  very  common  nowadays  in  France,  and  even  in  England  , 
writers  who  have  never  read  anything  worth  studying,  and  are, 
of  course,  presumptuous  in  proportion  to  their  ignorance.  I 
should  not  have  thought  an  artist  like  yourself  could  have  re- 
cognized an  artist  in  a  M.  Rameau  who  despises  Tasso  without 
knowing  Italian." 

Graham  spoke  bitterly  ;  he  was  once  more  jealous. 

"  Are  you  not  an  artist  yourself  ?  Are  you  not  a  writer  ?  M. 
Savarin  told  me  you  were  a  distinguished  man  of  letters." 

"  M.  Savarin  flatters  me  too  much.  I  am  not  an  artist,  and 
I  have  a  great  dislike  to  that  word  as  it  is  now  hackneyed  and 
vulgarized  in  England  and  in  France.  A  cook  calls  himself  an 
artist ;  a  tailor  does  the  same  ;  a  man  writes  a  gaudy  melo- 
drama, a  spasmodic  song,  a  sensational  novel,  and  straightway  he 
calls  himself  an  artist,  and  indulges  in  a  pedantic  jargon  about 
'  essence'  and  *  form,'   assuring  us  that  a  poet  we  can  under. 


,C6  THE  PAKISIANS. 

Stand  wants  essence,  and  a  poet  we  can  scan  wants  form.  Thank 
heaven  1  am  not  vain  enough  to  call  myself  artist.  I  have 
written  some  very  diy  lucubrations  in  periodicals,  chiefly  politi- 
cal, or  critical  upon  other  subjects  than  art.  But  why,  aproposoi 
M.  Rameau,  did  you  ask  me  that  question  respecting  myself  ?  " 

"  Because  much  in  your  conversation,"  answered  Isaura,  in 
rathci  a  mournful  tone,  "  made  me  suppose  you  had  more  sym- 
pathies with  art  and  its  cultivators  than  you  cared  to  avow. 
And  if  3'ou  had  such  sympathies,  you  would  comprehend  what  a 
relief  it  is  to  a  poor  aspirant  to  art  like  myself  to  come  into 
communication  with  those  who  devote  themselves  to  any  art 
distinct  from  the  common  pursuits  of  the  world  ;  what  a  relief 
it  is  to  escape  from  the  ordinary  talk  of  society.  There  is  a 
sort  of  instinctive  freemasonary  among  us,  including  masters 
and  disciples,  and  one  art  lias  a  fellowship  with  other  arts  ; 
mine  is  but  song  and  music,  yet  I  feel  attracted  towards  a  sculp- 
tor, a  painter,  a  romance-writer,  a  poet,  as  much  as  towards  a 
singer,  a  musician.  Do  you  understand  why  I  cannot  contemn 
M.  Rameau  as  you  do  ?  I  differ  from  his  tastes  in  literature  ;  I 
do  not  much  admire  such  of  his  writings  as  I  have  read  ;  I  grant 
that  he  overestimates  his  own  genius,  whatever  that  be  ;  yet  I 
like  to  converse  with  him  :  he  is  a  struggler  upward,  though 
with  weak  wings,  or  with  erring  footsteps,  like  myself." 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  Graham,  earnestly,  "  I  cannot  say 
how  I  thank  you  for  this  candor.  Do  not  condemn  me  for 
abusing  it — if "     He  paused. 

"  If  what  ?  " 

"  If  I,  so  much  older  than  yourself — I  do  not  say  only  in 
years,  but  in  the  experience  of  life — I,  whose  lot  is  cast  among 
those  busy  and  '  positive  '  pursuits  which  necessarily  quicken 
that  unromantic  faculty  called  common  sense — if,  I  say,  the 
deep  interest  with  which  you  must  inspire  all  whom  you  admit 
into  an  acquaintance,  even  as  unfamiliar  as  that  now  between 
us,  makes  me  utter  one  caution,  such  as  might  be  uttered  by 
a  friend  or  brother.  Beware  of  those  artistic  sympathies  ' 
W'hich  you  so  touchingly  confess  ;  beware  how,  in  the  great 
events  of  life,  you  allow  fancy  to  misguide  your  reason.  In 
choosing  friends  on  whom  to  rely,  separate  the  artist  from  the 
human  being.  Judge  of  the  human  being  for  what  it  is  in 
itself.  Do  not  worship  the  face  on  the  waters,  blind  to  the 
image  on  the  rock.  In  one  work,  never  see  in  an  artist  like 
a  M.  Rameau  the  human  being  to  whom  you  could  intrust 
the  destinies  of  your  life.  Pardon  me,  pardon  me  ;  we  may  meet 
little  hereafter,  but  you  are  a  creature  so  utterly  new  to  me, 


IHL  PARISIANS.  xb', 

so  wholly  unlike  any  woman  I  have  ever  before  encountered 
and  admired,  and  to  me   seem   endowed  with   such  wealth  of 

mind   and   soul,   exposed  to    such    hazard,   that — that " 

again  he  paused,  and  his  voice  trembled  as  he  concluded — 
"  that  it  would  be  a  deep  sorrow  to  me  if,  perhaps  yeais  hence. 
I  should  have  to  say,  "  Alas  !  by  what  mistake  has  that  weaUh 
been  wasted  ! '  " 

While  they  had  thus  conversed,  mechanically  they  had 
turned  away  from  the  house,  and  were  again  standing  before 
the  arbor. 

Graham,  absorbed  in  the  passion  of  his  adjuration,  had  not 
till  now  looked  into  the  face  of  the  companion  by  his  side. 
Now,  when  he  had  concluded,  and  heard  no  reply,  he  bent 
down,  and  saw  that  Isaura  was  weeping  silently, 

His  heart  smote  him. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  exlaimed,  drawing  her  hand  into  his  ; 
"  I  have  had  no  right  to  talk  thus  ;  but  it  was  not  from  want  of 
respect  ;  it  was — it  was " 

The  hand  which  was  yielded  to  his  pressed  it  gently,  timidly, 
chastely. 

"  Forgive  1  "  murmured  Isaura  ;  "  do  you  think  that  I,  an 
orphan,  have  never  longed  for  a  friend  who  would  speak  to  me 
thus  ?  "  And,  so  saying,  she  lifted  her  eyes,  streaming  still, 
to  his  bended  countenance — eyes,  despite  their  tears,  so  clear 
in  their  innocent  limpid  beauty,  so  ingenuous,  so  frank,  so 
virgin-like,  so  unlike  the  eyes  of  "  any  other  woman  he  had 
encountered  and  admired." 

"Alas  !  "  he  said,  in  quick  and  hurried  accents,  "you  may 
remember,  when  we  have  before  conversed,  how  I,  though  so 
uncultured  in  your  art,  still  recognized  its  beautiful  influence 
upon  human  breasts  ;  how  I  sought  to  combat  your  own 
depreciation  of  its  rank  among  the  elevating  agencies  of  hu- 
manity ;  how,  too,  I  said  that  no  man  could  venture  to  ask 
you  to  renounce  the  boards,  the  lamps — resign  the  fame  of 
actress,  of  singer.  Well,  now  that  you  accord  to  me  the  title 
of  friend,  now  that  you  so  touchingly  remind  me  that  you  are 
an  orphan — thinking  of  all  the  perils  the  young  and  the 
beautiful  of  your  sex  must  encounter  when  they  abandon 
private  life  for  public — I  think  that  a  true  friend  might 
put  the  question,  '  Can  you  resign  the  fame  of  actress,  of 
singer  ? ' " 

"  I  will  answer  you  frankly.  The  profession  which  once 
seemed  to  me  so  alluring  began  to  lose  its  charms  in  my  eyes 
some  months  ago.     It  was   your   words,   very  eloquently   ex- 


1 68  THE  PARISIANS. 

pressed,  on  the  ennobling  effects  of  music  and  song  upon  a 
popular  audience,  that  counteracted  the  growing  distaste  to  ren- 
dering up  my  whole  life  to  the  vocation  of  the  stage.  But  now 
I  think  I  should  feel  grateful  to  the  friend  whose  advice  inter- 
preted the  voice  of  my  own  heart  and  bade  me  relinquish  the 
career  of  actress." 

Graham's  face  grew  radiant.  But  whatever  might  have 
been  his  reply  was  arrested  ;  voices  and  footsteps  were  heard 
behind.  He  turned  round,  and  saw  the  Venosta,  the  Savarins, 
and  Gustave  Rameau. 

Isaura  heard  and  saw  also,  started  in  a  sort  of  alarmed  con- 
fusion, and  then  instinctively  retreated  towards  the  arbor. 

Graham  hurried  on  to  meet  the  Signora  and  the  visitors, 
giving  time  to  Isaura  to  compose  herself  by  arresting  them  in 
the  pathway  with  conventional  salutations. 

A  few  minutes  later  Isaura  joined  them,  and  there  was  talk 
to  which  Graham  scarcely  listened,  though  he  shared  in  it,  by 
abstracted  monosyllables.  He  declined  going  into  the  house, 
and  took  leave  at  the  gate.  In  parting,  his  eyes  fixed  them- 
selves on  Isaura.  Gustave  Rameau  was  by  her  side.  That 
nosegay  which  had  been  left  in  the  arbor  was  in  her  hand  ; 
and  though  she  was  bending  over  it,  she  did  not  now  pluck  and 
scatter  the  rose-leaves.  Graham  at  that  moment  felt  no  jeal- 
ousy of  the  fair-faced  young  poet  beside  her. 

As  he  walked  slowly  back,  he  muttered  to  himself,  "  But 
am  I  yet  in  the  position  to  hold  myself  wholly  free  ?  Am  I, 
am  I  ?  Were  the  sole  choice  before  me  that  between  her  and 
ambition  and  wealth,  how  soon  it  would  be  made  !  Ambition 
has  no  prize  equal  to  the  heart  of  such  a  woman,  wealth  no 
sources  of  joy  equal  to  the  treasures  of  her  love." 


CHAPTER  III. 

FROM  ISAURA  CICOGNA  TO  MADAM  K  DE  GRANTMESNIL. 

The  day  after  I  posted  my  last,  Mr.  Vane  called  on  us.  I 
was  in  our  little  garden  at  the  time.  Our  conversation  was 
brief,  and  soon  interrupted  by  visitors — the  Savarins  and  M. 
Rameau.  I  long  for  your  answer.  I  wonder  how  he  impressed 
you,  if  you  have  met  him  ;  how  he   would  impress,  if  you  met 


THE  PARTSIANS.  i5q 

him  now.  To  me  he  is  so  different  from  all  others  ;  and  I 
scarcely  know  why  his  words  ring  in  my  ears  and  his  image 
rests  in  my  thoughts.  It  is  strange  altogether;  for,  though  ho 
is  young,  he  speaks  to  me  as  if  he  were  so  much  older  than  I — 
so  kindly,  so  tenderly,  yet  as  if  I  were  a  child,  and  much  as 
the  dear  Maestro  might  do  if  he  thought  I  needed  caution  or 
counsel.  Do  not  fancy,  Eulalie,  that  there  is  any  danger  of  my 
deceiving  myself  as  to  the  nature  of  such  interest  as  he  may 
take  in  me.  Oh,  no  !  There  is  a  gulf  between  us  there  which 
he  does  not  lose  sight  of,  and  which  we  could  not  pass.  How, 
indeed,  I  could  interest  him  at  all  I  cannot  guess.  A  rich, 
high-born  Englishman,  intent  on  political  life,  practical,  prosaic 
— no,  not  prosaic  ;  but  still  with  the  kind  of  sense  which  does 
not  admit  into  its  range  of  vision  that  world  of  dreams  which 
is  familiar  as  their  daily  home  to  Romance  and  to  Art.  It  has 
always  seemed  to  me  that  for  love,  love  such  as  I  conceive  it, 
there  must  be  a  deep  and  constant  sympathy  between  two  per- 
sons— not,  indeed,  in  the  usual  and  ordinary  trifles  of  taste  and 
sentiment,  but  in  those  essentials  which  form  the  root  of  char- 
acter and  branch  out  in  all  the  leaves  and  blooms  that  expand 
to  the  sunshine  and  shrink  from  the  cold, — that  the  worldling 
should  wed  the  worldling,  the  artist  the  artist.  Can  the  realist 
and  the  idealist  blend  together,  and  hold  together  till  death  and 
beyond  death  ?  If  not,  can  there  be  true  love  between  them  ? 
By  true  love  I  mean  the  love  which  interpenetrates  the  soul, 
and,  once  given,  can  never  die.  Oh,  Eulalie — answer  me — 
answer ! 

P.  S. — I  have  now  fully  made  up  my  mind  to  renounce  all 
thought  of  the  stage. 

Fr07n  Madame  de  Granhnesnil  to  Isanra  Cicogna. 

My  dear  Child. — How  your  mind  has  grown  since  you  left 
me,  the  sanguine  and  aspiring  votary  of  an  art  which,  of  all 
arts,  brings  the  most  immediate  reward  to  a  successful  cultiva- 
tor, and  is  in  itself  so  divine  in  its  immediate  effects  upon  hu- 
nian  souls  !  Who  shall  say  what  may  be  the  after-results  of 
those  effects  which  the  waiters  on  posterity  presume  to  despise 
because  they  are  immediate  ?  A  dull  man,  to  whose  mind  a 
ray  of  that  vague  starlight  undetected  in  the  atmosphere  ot 
workday  life  has  never  yet  travelled;  to  whom  the  philosopher, 
the  preacher,  the  poet,  appeal  in  vain — nay,  to  whom  the  con- 
ceptions of  the  grandest  master  of  instrumental  music  are  in- 
comprehensible ;    to   whom    Beethoven   unlocks    no   portal  ir 


THE  PARISIANS. 
170 

heaven  ;  to  whom  Rossini  has  no  mysteries  on  earth  unsolved 
by  the  critics  of  the  pit,— suddenly  hears  the  human  voice  of 
the  human  singer,  and  at  the  sound  of  that  voice  the  walls  which 
inclosed  him  fall.  The  something  far  from  and  beyond  the 
routine  of  his  commonplace  existence  becomes  known  to  him. 
He  of  himself,  poor  man,  can  make  nothing  of  it.  He  cannot 
put  it  down  on  paper,  and  say  the  next  morning,  "  I  am  an 
inch  nearer  to  heaven  than  I  was  last  night ;  but  the  feeling 
that  he  is  an  inch  nearer  to  heaven  abides  with  him.  Uncon- 
sciouslv  he  is  gentler,  he  is  less  earthly,  and  in  being  nearer  to 
heaven  he  is  stronger  for  earth.  You  singers  do  not  seem  to 
me  to  understand  that  you  have— to  use  your  own  word,  so 
much  in  vogue  that  it  has  become  abused  and  trite — a  mission. 
When  you  talk  of  missions,  from  whom  comes  the  mission? 
Not  from  men.  If  there  be  a  mission  from  man  to  men,  it 
must  be  appointed  from  on  high. 

Think  of  all  this ;  and  in  being  faithful  to  your  art,  be  true 
to  yourself.  If  you  feel  divided  between  that  art  and  the  art 
of  the  writer,  and  acknowledge  the  first  to  lyi  too  exacting  to 
admit  a  rival,  keep  to  that  in  which  you  are  sure  to  excel.  Alas, 
my  fair  child  !  do  not  imagine  that  we  writers  feel  a  happiness 
in  our  pursuits  and  aims  more  complete  than  that  which  you 
can  command.  If  we  care  for  fame  (and,  to  be  frank,  we  all 
do),  that  fame  does  not  come  before  us  face  to  face — a  real, 
visible,  palpable  form,  as  it  does  to  the  singer,  to  the  actress. 
I  grant  that  it  may  be  more  enduring,  but  an  endurance  on  the 
length  of  which  we  dare  not  reckon.  A  writer  cannot  be  sure 
of  inimortality  till  his  language  itself  be  dead  ;  and  then  he  has 
but  a  share  in  an  uncertain  lottery.  Nothing  but  fragments 
remains  of  the  Phrynichus,  who  rivalled  yEschylus ;  of  the 
Agathon,  who  perhaps  excelled  Euripides ;  of  the  Alcaus,  in 
whom  Horace  acknowledged  a  master  and  a  model ;  their  re- 
nown is  not  in  their  works,  it  is  but  in  their  names.  And,  after 
all,  the  names  of  singers  and  actors  last  perhaps  as  long, 
Greece  retains  the  name  of  Polus,  Rome  of  Roscius,  England 
o"  Garrick,  France  of  Talma,  Italy  of  Pasta,  more  lastingly 
than  posterity  is  likely  to  retain  mine.  You  address  to  me  a 
question  which  I  have  often  put  to  myself—"  What  is  the  dis- 
tinction between  the  writer  and  the  reader,  when  the  reade'- 
says,  '  These  are  my  thoughts,  these  are  wrv  feelings  ;  the  writer 
has  stolen  them,  and  clothed  them  in  his  own  words '  .=•  "  And 
the  more  the  reader  says  this,  tlie  more  wide  is  the  audience, 
the  more  genuine  the  renown,  and,  paradox  though  it  seems, 
the  more  consummate   the  originality  of  the  writer.     But  no,  it 


THE  PARTSTANS.  i^, 

is  not  llie  mere  gift  of  expression,  it  is  not  the  mere  craft  of  the 
pen,  it  is  not  the  mere  taste  in  arrangement  of  word  and  ca- 
dence, wliich  thus  enables  the  one  to  interpret  the  mind,  the 
heart,  the  soul  of  the  many.  It  is  a  power  breathed  into  him 
as  he  lay  in  his  cradle,  and  a  power  that  gathered  around  itself, 
as  he  grew  up,  all  the  inliuences  he  acquired,  whether  from  ob- 
servation of  external  nature,  or  from  study  of  men  and  books, 
or  from  that  experience  of  daily  life  which  varies  with  every 
human  being.  No  education  could  make  two  intellects  exactly 
alike,  as  no  culture  can  make  two  leaves  exactly  alike.  How 
truly  you  describe  the  sense  of  dissatisfaction  which  every 
vi^riter  of  superior  genius  communicates  to  his  admirers  !  how 
truly  do  you  feel  that  the  greater  is  the  dissatisfaction  in  propor- 
tion to  the  writer's  genius  and  the  admirer's  conception  of  it ! 
But  that  is  the  mystery  which  makes — let  me  borrow  a  German 
phrase — the  cloud-land  between  the  finite  and  the  infinite.  The 
greatest  philosopher,  intent  on  the  secrets  of  Nature,  feels 
that  dissatisfaction  in  Nature  herself.  The  finite  cannot  re- 
duce into  logic  and  criticism  the  infinite. 

Let  us  dismiss  these  matters,  which  perplex  the  reason,  and 
approach  that  which  touches  the  heart — which  in  your  case,  my 
child,  touches  the  heart  of  woman.  You  speak  of  love,  and 
deem  that  the  love  which  lasts — the  household,  the  conjugal 
love — should  be  based  upon  such  sympathies  of  pursuit  that 
the  artist  should  wed  with  the  artist. 

This  is  one  of  the  questions  you  do  well  to  address  to  me  ; 
for,  whether  from  my  own  experience,  or  from  that  which  I 
have  gained  from  observation  extended  over  a  wild  range  of 
life  and  quickened  and  intensified  by  the  class  of  writing  that 
I  cultivate,  and  which  necessitates  a  calm  study  of  the  passions, 
I  am  an  authority  on  such  subjects,  better  than  most  women 
can  be.  And  alas,  my  child!  I  come  to  this  result;  there  is 
no  prescribing  to  men  or  to  women  whom  to  select,  whom  to 
refuse.  I  cannot  refute  the  axiom  of  the  ancient  poet,  "  In 
love  there  is  no  wherefore."  But  there  is  a  time — it  is  often 
but  a  moment  of  time — in  which  love  is  not  yet  a  master,  in 
which  we  can  say,  "  I  will  love — I  will  fwt  love." 

Now,  if  I  could  find  you  in  such  a  moment  I  would  say  to 
you,  "  Artist,  do  not  love — do  not  marry — an  artist."  Two 
artistic  natures  rarely  combine.  The  artistic  nature  is  won- 
derfully exacting,  I  fear  it  is  supremely  egotistical — so  jeal- 
ously sensitive  that  it  writhes  at  the  touch  of  a  rival.  Racine 
was  the  happiest  of  husbands  ;  his  wife  adored  his  genius,  but 
could   not  understand  his   plays.     Would  Racine  have    been 


1^2  THE  PARIS  TANS. 

happy  if  he  had  married  a  Comeille  in  petticoats  ?  I  whs 
SDeak  have  loved  an  artist,  certainly  equal  to  myself.  I  am 
sure  that  he  loved  me.  That  sympathy  in  pursuits  of  which 
you  speak  drew  us  together,  and  became  very  soon  the  cause 
of  antipathy.  To  both  of  us  the  endeavor  to  coalesce  was 
misery. 

I  don't  know  your  M.  Rameau.  Savarin  has  sent  me  some 
of  his  writings  ;  from  these  I  judge  that  his  only  chance  of  hap 
piness  would  be  to  marry  a  commonplace  woman,  with  separw 
Hon  lie  bicns.  He  is,  believe  me,  but  one  of  the  many  with 
whom  New  Paris  abounds,  who,  because  they  have  the  infirmi- 
ties of  genius,  imagine  they  have  its  strength. 

I  come  next  to  the  Englishman.  I  see  how  serious  is  your 
questioning  about  him.  You  not  only  regard  him  as  a  being 
distinct  from  the  crowd  of  the  salon  ;  he  stands  equally  apart 
in  the  chamber  of  your  thoughts — you  do  not  mention  him  in 
the  same  letter  as  that  which  treats  of  Rameau  and  Savarin. 
He  has  become  already  an  image  not  to  be  lightly  mixed  up 
with  others.  You  would  rather  not  have  mentioned  him  at  all 
to  me,  but  you  could  not  resist  it.  The  interest  you  feel  in 
him  so  perplexed  you,  that  in  a  kind  of  feverish  impatience 
you  cry  out  to  me,  "  Can  you  solve  the  riddle  .''  Did  you  ever 
know  well  Englishmen  ?  Can  an  Englishman  be  understood 
out  of  his  island  .''  "  etc.,  etc.  Yes,  I  have  known  well  many 
Englishmen.  In  affairs  of  the  heart  they  are  much  like  all 
other  men.  No  ;  I  do  not  know  this  Englishman  in  particular, 
nor  any  one  of  his  name. 

Well,  my  child,  let  us  frankly  grant  that  this  foreigner  has 
gained  some  hold  on  your  thoughts,  on  your  fancy,  perhaps  also 
on  your  heart.  Do  not  fear  that  he  will  love  you  less  endur- 
ingly,  or  that  you  will  become  alienated  from  him,  because  he 
is  not  an  artist.  If  he  be  a  strong  nature,  and  with  some  great 
purpose  in  life,  j'our  ambition  will  fuse  itself  in  his  ;  and  know- 
ing you  as  I  do,  I  believe  you  would  make  an  excellent  wife  to 
an  Englishman  whom  you  honored  as  well  as  loved ;  and  sorry 
though  I  should  be  that  you  relinquished  the  singer's  fame,  1 
should  be  consoled  in  thinking  you  safe  in  the  woman's  best 
sphere — a  contented  home,  safe  froni  calumny,  safe  from  gos- 
sip. I  never  had  that  home  ;  and  there  has  been  no  part  in 
my  author's  life  in  which  I  would  not  have  given  all  the  cele- 
brity it  won  for  the  obscure  commonplace  of  such  woman  lot. 
Could  I  move  human  beings  as  pawns  on  a  chess-board,  I 
should  indeed  say  that  the  most  suitable  and  congenial  mate 
for  you,  for  a  woman  of  sentiment  and  genius,  would  be  a  well 


THE  PARISIANS.  173 

born  and  well-educated  German  ;  for  such  a  German  unites, 
with  domestic  habits  and  a  strong  sense  of  family  ties,  a  ro- 
mance of  sentiment,  a  love  of  art,  a  predisposition  towards  the 
poetic  side  of  life  which  is  very  rare  among  Englishmen  of  the 
same  class.  But  as  the  German  is  not  forthcoming,  I  give  my 
vote  for  the  Englishman,  provided  only  you  love  him.  Ah, 
child,  be  sure  of  that.  Do  not  mistake  fancy  for  love.  All 
women  do  not  require  love  in  marriage,  but  without  it  that 
which  is  best  and  highest  in  yon  would  wither  and  die.  Write 
to  me  often,  and  tell  me  all.  M.  Savarin  is  right.  IMy  book  is 
no  longer  my  companion.  It  is  gone  from  me,  and  I  am  once 
more  alone  in  the  world. — Yours  affectionately. 

P.  S. — Is  not  your  postscript  a  woman's  ?  Does  it  not  re- 
quire a  woman's  postscript  in  reply  ?  You  say  in  yours  that 
you  have  fully  made  up  your  mind  to  renounce  all  thoughts  of 
the  stage.  I  ask  in  mine,  "  What  has  the  Englishman  to  do 
with  that  determination  ?  " 


CHAPTER  IV. 


Some  weeks  have  passed  since  Graham's  talk  with  Isaura 
in  the  garden  ;  he  has  not  visited  the  villa  since.  His  cousins 
the  d'Altons  have  passed  through  Paris  on  their  way  to  Italy, 
meaning  to  stay  a  few  days  ;  they  stayed  nearly  a  month,  and 
monopolized  much  of  Graham's  companionship.  Both  these 
were  reasons  why,  in  the  habitual  society  of  the  Duke,  Gra- 
ham's persuasion  that  he  was  not  yet  free  to  court  the  hand  of 
Isaura  became  strengthened,  and  with  that  persuasion  necessa- 
rily came  a  question  equally  addressed  to  his  conscience. 

"  If  not  yet  free  to  court  her  hand,  am  I  free  to  expose  my- 
self to  the  temptation  of  seeking  to  win  her  affection  .?  "  But 
when  his  cousin  was  gone,  his  heart  began  to  assert  its  own 
rights,  to  argue  its  own  case,  and  suggest  modes  of  reconciling 
its  dictates  to  the  obligations  which  seemed  to  oppose  them. 
In  this  hesitating  state  of  mind  he  received  the  following; 
note  : — 

ViLMA ,  Lac  d'Enghien. 

My  dear  Mr.  Vane, — We  have  retreated  from  Paris  to  the 
banks  of  this  beautiful  little  lake.  Come  and  help  to  save 
Frank  and  myself  from  quarrelling  with  each  other,  which,  until 


1^4  ^-^^  PAKISIANS. 

the  Rights  of  Women  are  firmly  established,  married  folks  al- 
ways will  do  when  left  to  themselves,  especially  if  they  are  still 
lovers,  as  P'rank  and  I  are.  Love  is  a  terribly  quarrelsome 
thing.  Make  us  a  present  of  a  few  days  out  of  your  wealth  of 
time.  We  will  visit  Montmorency  and  the  haunts  of  Rousseau 
— sail  on  the  lake  at  moonlight — dine  at  gypsy  restaurants 
under  trees  not  yet  embrowned  by  summer  heats — discuss  lit- 
erature and  politics — Shakspeare  and  the  musical  glasses" — ■ 
and  be  as  sociable  and  pleasant  as  Boccaccio's  tale-tellers  at 
Fiesole.  We  shall  be  but  a  small  party,  only  the  Savarins,  that 
unconscious  sage  and  humorist  Signora  Venosta,  and  that 
dimple-cheeked  Isaura,  who  embodies  the  song  of  nightingales 
and  the  smile  of  summer.  Refuse,  and  Frank  shall  not  have 
an  easy  moment  till  he  sends  in  his  claims  for  thirty  millions 
against  the  Alabama. — Yours,  as  you  behave, 

Lizzie  Morley. 

Graham  did  not  refuse.  He  went  to  Enghien  for  four  days 
and  a  quarter.  He  was  under  ihe  same  roof  as  Isaura.  Oh, 
those  hap])y  days ! — so  happy  that  they  defy  description.  But 
though  to  Graham  the  happiest  days  he  had  ever  known,  they 
were  happier  still  to  Isaura.  There  were  drawbacks  to  his 
happiness,  none  to  hers, — drawbacks  partly  from  reasons  the 
weight  of  which  the  reader  will  estimate  later,  partly  from 
reasons  the  reader  may  at  once  comprehend  and  assess.  In 
the  sunsh'ne  of  her  joy,  all  the  vivid  colorings  of  Isaura's 
artistic  temperament  came  forth,  so  that  what  I  may  call  the 
homely,  domestic  woman-side  of  her  nature  faded  into  shadow. 
If,  my  dear  render,  whether  you  be  man  or  woman,  you  have 
come  into  la;,  iar  contact  with  sonie  creature  of  a  genius  to 
which,  even  as.',uming  that  you  yourself  have  a  genius  in  its 
own  way,  you  have  no  special  affinities,  have  you  not  felt  shy 
with  that  creature.^  PLave  you  not,  perhaps,  felt  how  intensely 
you  could  love  that  creature,  and  doubted  if  that  creature 
could  possibly  love  you  }  Now,  I  think  that  shyness  and  that 
disbelief  are  conmion  with  either  man  or  woman,  if,  however 
conscious  of  superiority  in  the  prose  of  life,  he  or  she  recognizes 
inferiority  in  the  poetry  of  it.  And  yet  this  self-abasement  is 
exceedingly  mistaken.  The  poetical  kind  of  genius  is  so 
grandly  indulgent,  so  inherently  deferential,  bows  with  such 
unaffected  modesty  to  tlie  superiority  in  which  it  fears  it  may 
fail  ()ei  seldom  does  fail) — the  superiority  of  conunon  sense. 
And  when  we  cuir.e  to  woman,  what  marvellous  truth  is  con- 
veyed by  the    woman   who  has  had  no   superior  in   intellectual 


THE  PARISIANS. 


ns 


gifts  among  her  owti  sex  !  Corinne,  crowned  at  the  Capitol, 
selects  out  of  the  whole  world,  as  the  hero  of  her  love,  no  rival 
poet  and  enthusiast,  but  a  cold-blooded  sensible  Englishman. 

Graham  Vane,  in  his  strong  masculine  form  of  intellect — ■ 
Graham  Vane,  from  whom  I  hope  much,  if  he  live  to  fulfil  his 
rightful  career — had,  not  unreasonably,  the  desire  to  dominate 
the  life  of  the  woman  whom  he  selected  as  the  partner  of  his 
own.  But  the  life  of  Isaura  seemed  to  escape  him.  If  at 
moments,  listening  to  her,  he  would  say  to  himself,  "  What  a 
companion! — life  could  never  be  dull  with  her" — at  other 
moments  he  would  say,  "  True,  never  dull,  but  would  it  be 
always  safe  ?  "  And  then  comes  in  that  mysterious  power  of 
love  which  crushes  all  beneath  its  feet,  and  makes  us  end  self- 
commune  by  that  abject  submission  of  reason,  which  only 
murmurs,  "Better  be  unhappy  with  the  one  you  love,  than 
happy  with  one  whoni  you  do  not."  All  such  self-communes 
were  unknown  to  Isaura.  She  lived  in  the  bliss  of  the  hour. 
If  Graham  could  have  read  her  heart,  he  would  have  dismissed 
all  doubt  whether  he  could  dominate  her  life.  Could  a  Fate 
or  an  angel  have  said  to  her,  "  Choose, — on  one  side  I  promise 
you  the  glories  of  a  Catalani,  a  Pasta,  a  Sappho,  a  de  Stael,  a 
George  Sand — all  combined  into  one  immortal  name  ;  or,  on 
the  other  side,  the  whole  heart  of  the  man  who  would  estrange 
himself  from  you  if  you  had  such  combination  of  glories" — her 
answer  would  have  brought  Graham  Vane  to  her  feet ;  all 
scruples,  all  doubts,  would  have  vanished,  he  would  have  ex- 
claimed, with  the  generosity  inherent  in  the  higher  order  of 
man,  "  Be  glorious,  if  your  nature  wills  it  so.  Glory  enough 
to  me  that  you  would  have  resigned  glory  itself  to  become 
mine."  But  how  is  it  that  men  worth  a  woman's  loving 
become  so  diffident  when  they  love  intensely  ?  Even  in  ordi- 
nary cases  of  love  there  is  so  ineffable  a  delicacy  in  Virgin 
woman,  that  a  man,  be  he  how  refined  soever,  feels  himself 
rough  and  rude  and  coarse  in  comparison.  And  while  that  sort 
of  delicacy  was  pre-eminent  in  this  Italian  orphan,  there  came, 
to  increase  the  humility  of  the  man  so  proud  and  so  confident 
in  himself  when  he  had  only  men  to  deal  with,  the  consciousness 
that  his  intellectual  nature  was  hard  and  positive  beside  the 
angel-like  purity  and  the  fairy-like  play  of  hers. 

There  was  a  strong  wish  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Morley  to 
bring  about  the  union  of  these  two.  She  had  a  great  regard 
and  a  great  admiration  for  both.  To  her  mind,  unconscious 
of  all  Graham's  doubts  and  prejudices,  they  were  exactly  suited 
to  each  other.     A  man  of  intellect  so  cultivated  as  Graham's,  if 


,76 


THE  PARISIANS. 


married  to  a  commonplace  English  "  Miss,"  would  surely  feel 
as  if  life  had  no  sunshine  and  no  flowers.  The  love  of  an 
Isaura  would  steep  it  in  sunshine,  pave  it  with  tiowers.  Mrs 
Morley  admitted — all  American  Republicans  of  gentle  birth  do 
admit — the  instincts  which  lead  "  like"  to  match  with  "  like,"  an 
equality  of  blood  and  race.  With  all  her  assertion  of  the  Rights 
of  Woman,  I  do  not  think  that  Mrs.  Morley  would  ever  have 
conceived  the  possibility  of  consenting  that  the  richest  and 
prettiest  and  cleverest  girl  in  the  States  could  become  the  wife 
of  a  son  of  hers,  if  the  girl  had  the  taint  of  negro  blood,  even 
though  shown  nowhere  save  in  the  slight  distinguishing  hue  of 
her  finger-nails.  So,  had  Isaura's  merits  been  threefold  what 
they  were,  and  she  had  been  the  wealthy  heiress  of  a  retail 
grocer,  this  fair  republican  would  have  opposed  (more  strongly 
than  many  an  English  duchess,  or  at  least  a  Scotch  duke,  would 
do,  the  wish  of  a  son)  the  thought  of  an  alliance  between 
Graham  Vane  and  the  grocer's  daughter  !  But  Isanra  was  a 
Cicogna — an  offspring  of  a  very  ancient  and  ver)'  noble  house. 
Disparities  of  fortune  or  mere  worldly  position  Mrs.  Morley 
supremely  despised.  Here  were  the  great  parities  of  alliance 
— parities  in  years  and  good  looks  and  mental  culture.  So,  in 
short,  she,  in  the  invitation  given  to  them,  had  planned  for  the 
union  between  Isaura  and  Graham. 

To  this  plan  she  had  an  antagonist,  whom  she  did  not  even 
guess,  in  Madame  Savarin.  That  lady,  as  much  attached  to 
Isaura  as  was  Mrs.  Morley  herself,  and  still  more  desirous  of 
seeing  a  girl,  brilliant  and  parentless,  transferred  from  the  com- 
panionship of  Signora  Venosta  to  the  protection  of  a  husband, 
entertained  no  belief  in  the  serious  attentions  of  Graham  Vane. 
Perhaps  she  exaggerated  his  worldly  advantages — perhaps  she 
undervalued  the  warmth  of  his  affections  ;  but  it  was  not  with- 
in the  range  of  her  experience,  confined  much  to  Parisian  life, 
nor  in  harmony  wkh  her  notions  of  the  frigidity  and  morgue  of 
the  English  national  character,  that  a  rich  and  high-born  young 
man,  to  whom  a  great  career  in  practical  public  life  was  pre- 
dicted, should  form  a  matrimonial  alliance  with  a  foreign 
orphan  girl,  who,  if  of  gentle  birth,  had  no  useful  connections, 
would  bring  no  correspondent  dot,  and  has  been  reared  and 
intended  for  the  profession  of  the  stage.  She  much  more 
feared  that  the  result  of  any  attentions  on  the  part  of  such  a 
man  would  be  rather  calculated  to  compromise  the  orphan's 
name,  or  at  least  to  mislead  her  expectations,  than  to  secure 
lier  the  shelter  of  a  wedded  home.  Moreover,  she  had 
cherished   plans   of   her   own    for   Isaura's   future.      Madame 


THE  PARISIANS 


17/ 


Savarin  had  conceived  for  Gustave  Raineau  a  friendly  regard 
stronger  than  that  which  Mrs.  Morley  entertained  for  Graham 
Vane,  for  it  was  more  motherly.  Gustave  had  been  familiarized 
to  her  sight  and  her  thoughts  since  he  had  first  been  launched 
into  the  literary  world  under  her  husband's  auspices  ;  he  had 
confided  to  her  his  mortification  in  his  failures,  his  joy  in  his 
successes.  His  beautiful  countenance,  his  delicate  health,  his 
very  infirmities  and  defects,  had  endeared  him  to  her  womanly 
heart.  Isaura  was  the  wife  of  all  others  who,  in  Madame 
Savarin's  opinion,  was  made  for  Rameau.  Her  fortune,  so 
trivial  beside  the  wealth  of  the  Englishman,  would  be  a  com- 
joetence  to  Rameau;  then  that  competence  might  swell  into 
vast  riches  if  Isaura  succeeded  on  the  stage.  She  found  with 
extreme  displeasure  that  Isaura's  mind  had  became  estranged 
from  the  profession  to  which  she  had  been  destined,  and 
divined  that  a  deference  to  the  Englishman's  prejudices  had 
something  to  do  with  that  estrangement.  It  was  not  to  be 
expected  that  a  Frenchwoman,  wife  to  a  sprightly  man  of 
letters,  who  had  inimate  friends  and  allies  in  every  department 
of  the  artistic  world,  should  cherish  any  prejudice  whatever 
against  the  exercise  of  an  art  in  which  success  achieved  riches 
and  renown.  But  she  was  prejudiced,  as  most  Frenchwomen 
are,  against  allowing  to  unmarried  girls  the  same  freedom  and 
independence  of  action  that  are  the  rights  of  women — French 
women — when  married.  And  she  would  have  disapproved  the 
entrance  of  Isaura  on  her  professional  career  until  she  could 
enter  it  as  a  wife — the  wife  of  an  artist — the  wife  of  Gustave 
Rameau. 

Unaware  of  the  rivalry  between  these  friendly  diplomatists 
and  schemers,  Graham  and  Isaura  glided  hourly  more  and  more 
down  the  current,  which  as  yet  ran  smooth.  No  words  by  which 
love  is  spoken  were  exchanged  between  them  ;  in  fact,  though 
constantly  together,  they  were  very  rarely,  and  then  but  for 
moments,  alone  wiih  each  other.  Mrs.  Morley  artfully  schemed 
more  than  once  to  give  them  such  opportunities  for  that  mutual 
explanation  of  heart  which,  she  saw,  had  not  yet  taken  place  ; 
more  practised  and  with  art  more  watchful,  Madame  Savar  n  con 
trived  to  baftle  her  hostess's  intention.  But,  indeed,  neith  ^-r  Gra 
ham  or  Isaura  sought  to  make  opportunities  for  themselv>-.s.  He_ 
as  we  know,  did  not  deem  himself  wholly  justified  in  utte  ing  the 
words  of  love  by  which  a  man  of  honor  binds  himself  for  lite  ;  and 
she  Iwhat  girl,  pure-hearted  and  loving  truly,  does  not  shrink  from 
seeking  the  opportunities  which  it  is  for  the  man  to  court  ? 
Yet  Isaura  needed  no  v/ords  to  tell  her  that  she  was  loved — no, 


178 


THE  PARJSIAxVS. 


nor  even  a  pressure  of  the  hand,  a  glance  of  the  eye  ;  she  felt 
it  instinctively,  mysteriously,  by  the  glow  of  her  own  being  in 
tlie  presence  of  her  lover.  She  knew  that  she  herself  could 
not  so  love  unless  she  were  beloved. 

Here  woman's  wit  is  keener  and  truthfuUer  than  man's. 
Graham,  as  I  have  said,  did  not  feel  confident  that  he  had 
reached  the  heart  of  Isaura  :  he  was  conscious  that  he  had  en- 
gaged her  interest,  that  he  had  attracted  her  fancy  ;  but  often, 
when  charmed  by  the  joyous  play  of  her  imagination,  he 
would  sigh  to  himself,  "  To  a  nature  so  gifted  what  single  mortal 
can  be  the  all  in  all .''  " 

They  spent  the  summer  mornings  in  excursions  round  the 
beautiful  neighborhood,  dined  early,  and  sailed  on  the  calm 
lake  at  moonlight.  Their  talk  was  such  as  might  be  expected 
from  lovers  of  books  in  summer  holidays,  Savarin  was  a  critic  by 
profession  ;  Graham  Vane,  if  not  that,  at  least  owed  such  liter- 
ary reputation  as  he  had  yet  gained  to  essays  in  which  the  rare 
critical  faculty  was  conspicuously  developed. 

It  was  pleasant  to  hear  the  clash  of  these  two  minds  en- 
countering each  other ;  they  differed  perhaps  less  in  opinions 
than  in  the  mode  by  which  opinions  are  discussed.  The  En- 
glishman's range  of  reading  was  wider  than  the  Frenchman's, 
and  his  scholarship  more  accurate ;  but  the  Frenchman  had  a 
compact  neatness  of  expression,  a  light  and  nimble  grace, 
whether  in  the  advancing  or  the  retreat  of  his  argument,  which 
covered  deficiencies  and  often  made  them  appear  like  merits 
Graham  was  compelled,  indeed,  to  relinquish  many  of  the 
forces  of  superior  knowledge  or  graver  eloquence  which,  with 
less  lively  antagonists,  he  could  have  brought  into  the  field, 
for  the  witty  sarcasm  of  Savarin  would  have  turned  them 
aside  as  pedantry  or  declamation.  But  though  Graham 
was  neither  dry  or  diffuse,  and  the  happiness  at  his  heart  brought 
out  the  gayety  of  humor  which  had  been  his  early  characteristic, 
and  yet  rendered  his  familiar  intercourse  genial  and  playful, — • 
still  there  was  this  distinction  between  his  humor  and  Savarin's 
wit,  that  at  the  first  there  was  always  something  earnest,  in  the 
last  always  something  mocking.  And  in  criticism  Graham 
seemed  ever  anxious  to  bring  out  a  latent  beauty,  even  in  writers 
comparatively  neglected.  Savarin  was  acutest  when  dragging 
forth  a  blemish  never  before  discovered  in  writers  universally 
read. 

Graham  did  not  perhaps  notice  the  profound  attention  with 
which  Isaura  listened  to  hint  in  these  intellectual  skirmishes 
with  the  more   glittering  Parisian.     There  was  this   distinction 


l^IIE  PARISIANS.  17 

she  made  between  him  and  Savarin  :  when  the  last  sjDoke  she 
often  chimed  in  with  some  happy  sentiment  of  her  own  ;  but 
she  never  interrupted  Graliam — never  intimated  a  dissent  from 
his  theories  of  art,  or  the  deductions  he  drew  from  them  ;  and 
she  would  remain  silent  and  thoughtful  for  some  minutes  when 
his  voice  ceased.  There  was  passing  from  his  mind  into  hers 
an  ambition  which  she  imagined,  poor  girl,  that  he  would  be 
pleased  to  think  he  had  inspired,  and  which  might  become  a 
new  bond  of  sympathy  between  them.  But  as  yet  the  ambition 
was  vague  and  timid — an  idea  or  a  dream  to  be  fulfilled  in  some 
indefinite  future. 

I'he  last  night  of  this  short-lived  holiday-time,  the  party- 
after  staying  out  on  the  lake  to  a  later  hour  than  usual,  stood 
lingering  still  on  the  lawn  of  the  villa  ;  and  their  host:  who 
was  rather  addicted  to  superficial  studies  of  the  positive  sciences, 
including,  of  course,  the  most  popular  of  all,  astronomy,  kept 
his  guests  politely  listening  to  speculative  conjectures  on  the 
probable  size  of  the  inhabitant  of  Sirius — that  very  distant  and 
very  gigantic  inhabitant  of  heaven  who  has  led  philosophers 
into  mortifying  reflections  upon  the  utter  insignificance  of  our 
own  poor  little  planet,  capable  of  producing  nothing  greater 
than  Shakspeares  and  Newtons,  Aristotles  and  Caesars — mani- 
kins, no  doubt,  beside  intellects  proportioned  to  the  size  of  the 
world  in  which  they  flourish. 

As  it  chanced,  Isaura  and  Graham  were  then  standing 
close  to  each  other  and  a  little  apart  from  the  rest.  "'  It  is 
very  strange,"  said  Graham,  laughing  low,  "  how  little  I  care 
about  Sirius.  He  is  the  sun  of  some  other  system,  and  is 
perhaps  not  habitable  at  all,  except  by  salamanders.  He  can- 
not be  one  of  the  stars  with  which  I  have  established  familiar 
acquaintance,  associated  with  fancies  and  dreams  and  hopes, 
as  most  of  us  do,  for  instance,  with  Hesperus,  the  moon's 
harbinger  and  comrade.  But  amid  all  those  stars  there  is 
one — not  Hesperus — which  has  always  had,  from  my  child- 
hood, a  mysterious  fascination  for  me.  Knowing  as  little  of 
astrology  as  I  do  of  astronomy,  when  I  gaze  upon  that  star  I 
become  credulously  superstitious,  and  fancy  it  has  an  influence 
on  my  life.     Have  you,  too,  any  favorite  star  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Isaura  ;  "and  I  distinguish  it  now,  but  I  do  not 
even  know  its  name,  and  never  would  ask  it." 

"  So  like  me.  I  would  not  vulgarize  my  unknown  source 
of  beautiful  illusions  by  giving  it  the  name  it  takes  in  techni- 
cal catalogues.  For  fear  of  learning  that  name,  I  never  have 
pointed  it  out  to  any  one  before.      I  too  at  this  moment  dis- 


,So  THE  PARISIANS. 

linguish  it  aparl  from  all  its  brotherhood.  Tell  me  which  is 
yours." 

Isaura  pointed  and  explained.  The  Englishman  was  startled, 
By  what  strange  coincidence  could  they  both  have  singled  out 
from  all  the  host  of  heaven  the  same  favorite  star  t 

"  Cher  Vane,"  cried  Savarin,  "  Colonel  Morley  declares  that 
what  America  is  to  the  terrestrial  system  Sirius  is  to  the 
heavenly.  America  is  to  extinguish  Europe,  and  then  Sirius  is 
to  extinguish  the  world." 

"  Not  for  some  millions  of  years;  time  to  look  about  us," 
said  the  Colonel,  gravely.  "  But  I  certainly  differ  from  those 
who  maintain  that  Sirius  recedes  from  us.  I  say  that  he 
approaches.  The  principles  of  a  body  so  enlightened  must 
be  those  of  progress."  Then  addressing  Graham  in  English, 
he  added,  "  There  will  be  a  mulling  in  this  fogified  planet 
some  day,  I  predicate.     Sirius  is  a  keener  !  " 

"  I  have  not  imagination  lively  enough  to  interest  myself 
in  the  destinies  of  Sirius  in  connection  with  our  planet  at  a 
date  so  remote,"  said  Graham,  smiling.  Then  he  added  in  a 
whisper  to  Isaura,  "  My  imagination  does  not  carry  me  further 
than  to  wonder  whether  this  day  twelvemonth — the  8th  of  July 
— we  two  shall  both  be  singling  out  that  same  star,  and  gazing 
on  it  as  now,  side  by  side." 

This  was  the  sole  utterance  of  that  sentiment  in  which  the 
romance  of  love  is  so  rich  that  the  Englishman  addressed  to 
Isaiu'a  during  those  memorable  summer  days  at  Enghien. 


CHAPTER    V. 

The  next  morning  the  party  broke  up.  Letters  had  been 
delivered  both  to  Savarin  and  to  Graham,  which,  even  had 
the  day  for  departure  not  been  fixed,  would  have  summoned 
them  away.  On  reading  his  letter,  Savarin's  brow  became 
clouded.  He  made  a  sign  to  his  wife  after  breakfast,  and 
wandered  away  with  her  down  an  alley  in  the  little  garden. 
His  trouble  was  of  that  nature  which  a  wife  either  soothes  or 
aggravates,  according  sometimes  to  her  habitual  frame  of  mind, 
sometimes  to  the  mood  of  temper  in  which  she  may  chance  to 
be  ; — a  household  trouble,  a  pecuniary  trouble. 

Savarin  was  by  no  means  an  extravagant  man.     His  mode 


THE  PARISIANS.  181 

of  living,  though  elegant  and  hospitable,  was  modest  compared 
to  that  of  many  French  authors  inferior  to  himself  in  the 
fame  which  at  Paris  brings  a  very  good  return  in  francs.  But 
his  station  itself  as  the  head  of  a  powerful  literary  clique 
necessitated  many  expenses  which  were  too  congenial  to  his 
extreme  good  nature  to  be  regulated  by  strict  prudence.  His 
hand  was  always  open  to  distressed  writers  and  struggling  art- 
ists, and  his  sole  income  was  derived  from  his  pen  and  a  journal 
in  which  he  was  chief  editor  and  formerly  sole  proprietor.  But 
that  journal  had  of  late  not  prospered.  He  had  sold  or  pledged 
a  considerable  share  in  the  proprietorship.  He  had  been  com- 
pelled also  to  borrow  a  sum  large  for  him,  and  the  debt,  ob- 
tained from  a  retired  bourgeois  who  lent  out  his  moneys  "by 
way,"  he  said,  "  of  maintaining  an  excitement  and  interest  in 
life,"  would  in  a  few  davs  become  due.  The  letter  was  not 
from  that  creditor,  but  it  was  from  his  publisher,  containing 
a  very  disagreeable  statement  of  accounts,  pressing  for  settle- 
ment, and  declining  an  offer  of  Savarin's  for  a  new  book  (not 
yet  begun)  except  upon  terms  that  the  author  valued  himself 
to  highly  to  accept.  Altogether,  the  situation  was  unj^leas- 
ant.  There  were  many  times  in  which  Madame  Savarin 
presumed  to  scold  her  distinguished  husband  for  his  want  of 
prudence  and  thrift.  But  those  were  never  the  times  when 
scolding  could  be  of  no  use.  It  could  clearly  be  of  no  use 
now.  Now  was  the  moment  to  cheer  and  encourage  him,  to 
reassure  him  as  to  his  own  undiminished  powers  and  popu- 
larity, f(;r  he  talked  dejectly  of  himself  as  obsolete  and 
passing  out  of  fashion  ;  to  convince  him  also  of  the  impossi- 
bility that  the  ungrateful  publisher  whom  Savarin's  more 
brilliant  successes  had  enriched  could  encounter  the  odium  of 
hostile  procedings  ;  and  to  remind  him  of  all  the  authors,  all 
the  artists,  whom  he,  in  their  earlier  difficulties,  had  so  liber- 
ally assisted,  and  from  whom  a  sum  sufficing  to  pay  off  the 
bou7-geois  creditor  when  the  day  arrived  could  now  be  honorably 
asked  and  would  be  readily  contributed.  In  this  last  sugges- 
tion the  homely  prudent  good  sense  of  Madame  Savarin 
failed  her.  She  did  not  comprehend  that  delicate  pride  of 
honor  which,  with  all  his  Parisian  frivolities  and  cynicism, 
dignified  tlie  Parisian  man  of  genius.  Savarin  could  not,  to 
save  his  neck  from  a  rope,  have  sent  round  the  begging-hat 
to  friends  whom  he  had  obliged.  Madame  Savarin  was  one 
of  those  women  with  large-lobed  ears,  who  can  be  wonderfully 
affectionate,  wonderfully  sensible,  admirable  wives  and  motliers, 
and    yet    are    deficient    in    artistic    sympathies   with    artistic 


,82  THE  PARISTANS. 

natures.  Slill,  a  realh^  good  honest  wife  is  such  an  incalcula- 
ble blessing  to  her  lord,  that,  at  the  end  of  the  talk  in  the 
solitary  allec,  this  man  of  exquisite  finesse,  of  the  undefinably 
high-bred  temperament,  and,  alas  !  the  painfully  morbid  sus- 
ceptibility, which  belong  to  the  genuine  artistic  character, 
emerged  into  the  open  sunlit  lawn  with  his  crest  uplifted,  his 
lip  cui-\-ed  upward  in  its  joyous  mocker}-,  and  perfectly  per- 
suaded that  somehow  or  other  he  should  put  down  the  offen- 
sive publisher  and  pay  off  the  unoffending  creditor  when  the 
day  for  payment  came.  Still,  he  had  judgment  enough  to 
know  that  to  do  this  he  must  get  back  to  Paris,  and  could  not 
dawdle  away  precious  hours  in  discussing  the  principles  of 
poetry  with  Graham  Vane. 

There  was  only  one  thing,  apart  from  "  the  begging  hat," 
in  which  Savarin  dissented  from  his  wife.  She  suggested  his 
starting  a  new  journal  in  conjunction  with  Gustave  Rameau, 
upon  whose  genius  and  the  expectations  to  be  formed  from  it 
(here  she  was  tacitly  thinking  of  Isaura  wedded  to  Rameau, 
and  more  than  a  Malibran  on  the  stage)  she  insisted  vehe- 
mently. Savarin  did  not  thus  estimate  Gustave  Rameau— 
thought  him  a  clever  promising  young  writer  in  a  very  bad 
school  of  writing,  who  might  do  well  some  day  or  other.  But 
that  a  Rameau  could  help  a  Savarin  to  make  a  fortune  !  No  ; 
|at  that  idea  he  opened  his  eyes,  patted  his  wife's  shoulder,  and 
ailed  her  ''enfant'' 

Graham's  letter  was  from  M.  Renard,  and  ran  thus  : — 
Monsieur. — I  had  the  honor  to  call  at  your  apartment  this 
mornnig,  and  1  write  this  line  to  the  address  given  to  me  by 
your  concierge  to  say  that  I  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  as- 
certain that  the  relation  of  the  missing  lady  is  now  at  Paris.  I 
shall  hold  myself  in  readiness  to  attend  your  summons. — Deign 
to  accept.  Monsieur,  the  assurance  of  my  profound  considera- 
tion. 

J.  Renard. 

This  communication  sufficed  to  put  Graham  into  very  high 
spirits.  Anything  that  promised  success  to  his  research 
seemed  to  deliver  his  thoughts  from  a  burden  and  his  will  from 
a  feller.  Perhaps  in  a  few  days  he  might  frankly  and  honorably 
say  to  Isaura  words  which  would  justify  his  retaining  longer, 
and  pressing  more  ardently,  the  delicate  hand  which  trembled 
in  his  as  they  took  leave. 

On  arriving  at  Paris,  Graham  despatched  a  note  to  M, 
Renard   requesting   to   see   him,    and   received   a   brief  line  in 


\ 


THE  PARISrAiVS.  183 

reply  that  M.  Renard  feared  he  should  be  detained  on  other 
and  important  business  till  the  evening,  but  hoped  to  call  at 
eight  o'clock.  A  few  minutes  before  that  hour  he  entered 
Graham's  apartment. 

''  You  have  discovered  the  uncle  of  Louise  Duval  !  "  ex- 
claimed Graham  ;  "  of  course  you  mean  M.  de  Mauldon,  and 
he  is  at  Paris  ?  " 

"  True  so  far,  Monsieur  ;  but  do  not  be  too  sanguine  as  to 
the  results  of  the  information  I  can  give  you.  Permit  me,  as 
briefly  as  possible,  to  state  the  circumstances.  When  you  ac- 
quainted me  with  the  fact  that  M.  de  Mauleon  was  the  uncle 
of  Louise  Duval,  I  told  you  that  I  was  not  without  hopes  of 
finding  him  out,  though  so  long  absent  from  Paris.  I  will  now 
explain  why.  Some  months  ago,  one  of  my  colleagues  engaged 
in  the  political  department  (which  I  am  not)  was  sent  to  Lyons 
in  consequence  of  some  suspicions  conceived  by  the  loyal 
authorities  there  of  a  plot  against  the  Emperor's  life.  The 
suspicions  were  groundless,  the  plot  a  mare's  nest.  But  my 
colleague's  attention  was  especiallly  drawn  towards  a  man,  not 
mixed  up  with  the  circumstances  from  which  a  plot  had  been 
inferred,  but  deemed  in  some  way  or  other  a  dangerous  enemy 
to  the  Government.  Ostensibly,  he  exercised  a  modest  and 
small  calling  as  a  sort  of  coiwtier  or  agent  de  change ;  but  it  was 
noticed  that  certain  persons  familiarly  frequenting  his  apart- 
ment, or  to  whose  houses  he  used  to  go  at  night,  were  dis- 
affected to  the  Government — not  by  any  means  of  the  lowest 
rank — some  of  them  rich  malcontents  who  had  been  devoted 
Orleanists  ;  others,  disappointed  aspirants  to  office  or  the 
'  cross  ; '  one  or  two  well-born  and  opulent  fanatics  dreaming 
of  another  Republic.  Certain  very  able  articles  in  the  journals 
of  the  excitable  Alidi,  though  bearing  another  signature,  were 
composed  or  dictated  by  this  man — articles  evading  the  censure 
and  penalties  of  the  law,  but  very  mischievous  in  their  tone. 
All  who  had  come  into  familiar  communication  with  this  person 
were  impressed  with  a  sense  of  his  powers,  and  also  with  a 
vague  belief  that  he  belonged  to  a  higher  class  in  breeding  and 
education  than  that  of  a  petty  agent  de  change.  My  colleague 
set  himself  to  watch  the  man,  and  took  occasions  of  busmess 
at  his  little  office  to  enter  into  talk  with  him.  Not  by  personal 
appearance,  but  by  voice,  he  came  to  a  conclusion  that  the 
man  was  not  wholly  a  stranger  to  him  ;  a  peculiar  voice  with  a 
slight  Nornian  breadth  of  pronunciation,  though  a  Parisian 
accent ;  a  voice  very  low,  yet  very  distinct — very  masculine,  yet 
very  gentle.     My  colleague  was  puzzled,  till  late  one  evening 


i84 


THE  PARISIANS. 


he  observed  the  man  coming  out  of  the  house  of  one  of  these 
rich  malcontents,  the  rich  malcontent  himself  accompanying 
him.  My  colleague,  availing  himself  of  the  dimness  of 
light,  as  the  two  passed  into  a  lane  which  led  to  the  agent's 
apartment,  contrived  to  keep  close  behind  and  lislen  to  their 
conversation.  But  of  this  he  heard  nothing — only  when,  at  the 
end  of  the  lane,  the  rich  man  turned  abruptly,  shook  his  com- 
panion warmly  by  the  hand,  and  parted  from  him,  saying, 
'  Never  fear  ;  all  shall  go  right  with  you,  my  dear  Victor.'  At 
the  sound  of  that  name  '  Victor,'  my  colleague's  memories, 
before  so  confused,  became  instantaneously  clear.  Previous  to 
entering  our  service,  he  had  been  in  the  horse  business — a 
votary  of  the  turf  ;  as  such  he  had  often  seen  the  brilliant 
'  sportman,''  Victor  de  Maule'on  ;  sometimes  talked  to  him.  Yes, 
that  was  the  voice — the  slight  Norman  intonation  (Victor  de 
MauMon's  father  had  it  strongly,  and  Victor  had  passed  some 
of  his  early  childhood  in  Normandy),  the  subdued  modulation 
of  speech  which  had  made  so  polite  the  offence  to  men,  or  so 
winning  the  courtship  to  woman — that  was  Victor  de  Mauleon. 
But  why  there  in  that  disguise  .''  What  w-as  his  real  business 
and  object  ?  My  confrere  had  not  ime  allowed  to  him  to  pros- 
ecute such  inquiries.  Whether  Victor  or  the  rich  malcontent 
had  observed  him  at  their  heels,  and  feared  he  might  have 
overheard  their  words,  I  know  not,  but  the  next  day  appeared 
in  one  of  the  popular  journals  circulating  among  the  oiivriers  a 
paragraph  stating  that  a  Paris  spy  had  been  seen  at  Lyons, 
warning  all  honest  men  against  his  machinations,  and  contain- 
ing a  tolerably  accurate  description  of  his  person.  And  that 
very  day,  on  venturing  forth,  my  estimable  colleague  suddenly 
found  himself  hustled  by  a  ferocious  throng,  from  whose  hands 
he  was  with  great  difficulty  rescued  by  the  municipal  guard. 
He  left  Lyons  that  night,  and  for  recompense  of  his  services 
received  a  sharp  reprimand  from  his  chief.  He  had  committed 
the  worst  offence  in  our  profession,  trap  de  zele.  Having  only 
heard  the  outlines  of  this  story  from  another,  I  repaired  to  my 
co/i/rcre  after  my  last  interview  with  Monsieur,  and  learned 
what  I  now  tell  you  from  his  own  lips.  As  he  was  not  in  my 
branch  of  the  service,  I  could  not  order  him  to  return  to  Lyons ; 
and  I  doubt  whether  his  chief  would  have  allowed  it.  But  I 
went  to  Lyons  myself,  and  there  ascertained  that  our  supposed 
Vicomte  had  left  that  town  for  Paris  some  months  ago,  not  long 
after  the  adventure  of  my  colleague.  The  man  bore  a  very 
good  character  generally — was  said  to  be  very  honest  and  in- 
offensive ;  and  the   notice   taken  of  him  by  persons  of  higher 


THE  PARISIANS. 


185 


rank  was  attributed  generally  to  a"respect  for  his  talents,  and 
not  on  account  of  any  sympathy  in  political  opinions.  1  found 
that  the  confrere  mentioned,  and  who  alone  could  identify  M. 
de  Mauleon  in  the  disguise  which  the  Vicomte  had  assumed, 
was  absent  in  one  of  those  missions  abroad  in  which  he  is 
chiefly  employed.  I  had  to  wait  for  his  return,  and  it  was  only 
the  day  before  yesterday  that  I  obtained  the  following  par- 
ticulars. M.  de  Mauleon  beais  the  same  name  as  he  did  at 
Lyons — that  name  is  Jean  Lebeau ;  he  exercises  the  ostensible 
profession  of  *  a  letter-writer,'  and  a  sort  of  adviser  on  business 
among  the  workmen  and  petty  bourgeoisie,  and  he  nightly  fre- 
quents the  Cafe  yean  yacqnes,  Rue J^aulwurg  AfoJitmartre. 

It  is  not  yet  quite  half-past  eight,  and  no  doubt  you  could  see 
him  at  the  cafe  this  very  night,  if  you  thought  proper  to  go." 

"  Excellent  !     I  will  go  !     Describe  him." 

"Alas  !  that  is  exactly  what  I  cannot  do  at  present.  Foi, 
after  hearing  what  I  now  tell  you,  I  put  the  same  request  you 
do  to  my  colleague,  when,  before  he  could  answer  me,  he  was 
summoned  to  the  bureau  of  his  chief,  promising  to  return  and 
give  me  the  requisite  description.  He  did  not  return.  And  I 
find  that  he  was  compelled  on  quitting  his  chief,  to  seize  the 
first  train  starting  for  Lille,  upon  an  important  political  investi- 
gation which  brooked  no  delay.  He  will  be  back  in  a  few  days, 
and  then  Monsieur  shall  have  the  description.' 

"  Nay,  I  think  I  will  seize  time  by  the  forelock,  and  try  my 
chance  to-night.  If  the  man  be  really  a  conspirator,  and  it 
looks  likely  enough,  who  knows  but  he  may  see  quick  reason  to 
take    alarm  and  vanish  from  Paris  at  any  hour }     Cafe  yean 

yacques.  Rue ;  I  will  go.     Stay;  you  have  seen  Victor  de 

Mauleon  in  his  youth  :  what  was  he  like  then  ?" 

"  Tall — slender  but  broad-shouldered — very  erect — carrying 
his  head  high — a  profusion  of  dark  curls — a  small  black  mous- 
tache— fair  clear  complexion — light  colored  eyes  with  dark 
lashes — fort  bel  homme.     But  he  will  not  look   like  that  now." 

"  His  present  age  .■*" 

"  Forty-seven  or  forty-eight.  But  before  you  go,  I  must  beg 
you  to  consider  well  what  you  are  about.  It  is  evident  that  M. 
de  Mauleon  has  some  strong  reason,  whatever  it  be,  for  merging 
his  identity  in  that  of  Jean  Lebeau.  I  presume,  therefore,  that 
you  can  scarcely  go  up  to  M.  Lebeau,  when  you  have  discover- 
ed him,  and  say,  '  Pray  M.  le  Vicomte,  can  you  give  me  some 
tidings  of  your  niece,  Louise  Duval  ?'  If  you  thus  accosted  him, 
you  might  possibly  bring  some  danger  on  yourself,  but  you 
would  certainly  gain  no  information  from  him." 


1 86  TlIK  PARISIANS. 

"True." 

"  On  the  other  hand,  if  you  make  his  acquaintance  as  M. 
Lebeau,  how  can  you  assume  him  to  know  anything  about 
Louise  Duval  ?" 

"  Parbleu !  M.  Renard,  you  try  to  toss  me  aside  on  both 
horns  of  the  dilemma  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  if  I  once  make 
his  acquaintance  as  M.  Lebeau  I  might  gradually  and  cautious- 
ly feel  my  way  as  to  the  best  mode  of  putting  the  question  to 
which  I  seek  reply.  I  suppose,  too,  that  the  man  must  be  in 
very  poor  circumstances  to  adopt  so  humble  a  calling,  and  that 
a  small  sum  of  money  may  soothe  all  difficulties." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  M.  Renard,  thoughtfully, 
"  but  grant  that  money  may  do  so,  and  grant  also  that  the 
Vicomte,  being  a  needy  man,  has  become  a  very  unscrupulous 
one — is  there  anything  in  your  motives  for  discovering  Louise 
Duval  Avhich  might  occasion  you  trouble  and  annoyance  if  -it 
were  divined  by  a  needy  and  unscrupulous  man  ? — anything 
which  might  give  him  a  power  of  threat  or  exaction  ?  Mind  I 
am  not  asking  you  to  tell  me  any  secret  you  have  reasons  for 
concealing,  but  I  suggest  that  it  might  be  prudent  if  you  did 
not  let  M.  Lebeau  know  your  real  name  and  rank — if,  in  short, 
you  could  follow  liis  example,  and  adopt  a  disguise.  But  no  ; 
when  I  think  of  it,  you  would  doubtless  be  so  unpractised  in 
the  art  of  disguise  that  he  would  detect  you  at  once  to  be  other 
than  you  seem  ;  and  if  suspecting  you  of  spying  into  his  secrets 
if  tliose  secrets  be  really  of  a  political  nature,  your  very  life 
might  not  be  safe." 

"Thank  you  for  your  hint — the  disguise  is  an  excellent  idea, 
and  combines  amusement  with  precaution.  That  this  Victor 
de  Mauleon  must  be  a  very  unprincipled  and  dangerous  man 
is,  I  think,  abundantly  clear.  Granting  that  he  was  innocent 
of  all  design  of  robbery  in  the  affair  of  the  jewels,  still  the  of- 
fence which  he  did  own — that  of  admitting  himself  at  night  by 
a  false  key  into  the  rooms  of  a  wife,  whom  he  sought  to  surprise 
or  terrify  into  dishonor — was  a  villanous  action  ;  and  his  pres- 
ent course  of  life  is  sufficiently  mysterious  to  warrant  the  most 
unfavorable  supposition.  Besides  there  is  another  motive  for 
concealing  my  name  from  him  :  you  say  that  he  once  had  a  duel 
with  a  Vane,  who  was  very  probably  my  father,  and  I  have  no 
wish  to  expose  myself  to  the  chance  of  his  turning  up  in  London 
some  day  and  seeking  to  renew  there  the  acquaintance  that  I  had 
courted  at  Paris.  As  for  my  skill  in  playing  any  part  I  assume, 
do  not  fear.  I  am  no  novice  in  that.  In  my  younger  days  I 
was  thought  clever  in  priv.n4.e  theatricals,  especially  in  the  trans- 


THE  PAKISIAXS. 


.Sy 


formations  of  appearance  which  belong  to  light  comedy  and 
farce.     Wait  a  few  minutes  and  you  shall  see." 

Graham  then  retreated  to  his  bedroom,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
reappeared,  so  changed  that  Renard  at  first  glance  took  him 
for  a  stranger.  He  had  doffed  his  dress — which  habitually, 
when  in  capitals,  was  characterized  by  the  quiet,  indefinable 
elegance  that  a  man  of  the  great  world,  high-bred  and  young, 
seems  "  to  the  manner  born" — for  one  of  those  coarse  suits  which 
Englishmen  are  wont  to  wear  in  their  travels,  and  by  which 
they  are  represented  in  JVench  or  German  caricatures, — loose 
jacket  of  tweed,  with  redundant  pockets,  waistcoat  to  match 
short  dust-colored  trousers.  He  had  combed  his  hair  straight 
over  his  forehead,  which,  as  I  have  said  somewhere  before,  ap- 
peared in  itself  to  alter  the  character  of  his  countenance  and 
without  any  resort  to  paints  or  cosmetics,  had  somehow  or  other 
given  to  the  expression  of  his  face  an  impudent,  low-bred  ex- 
pression, with  a  glass  screwed  on  his  right  eye,  such  a  look  as  a 
cockney  journeyman,  wishing  to  pass  for  a  "  swell  "  about  town 
may  cast  on  a  servant  maid  in  the  pit  of  a  suburban  theatre. 

"  Will  it  do,  old  fellow  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  rollicking, 
swaggering  tone  of  voice,  speaking  French  with  a  villanous 
British  accent. 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Renard,  laughing.  "  I  offer  my  compli- 
ments ;  and  if  ever  you  are  ruined.  Monsieur,  I  will  promise 
you  a  place  in  our  police.  Only  one  caution, — take  care  not 
to  overdo  your  part." 

"  Right.     A  quarter  to  nine — I'm  off." 


CHAPTER  Vr. 


There  is  generally  a  brisk  exhilaration  of  spirits  in  the 
return  to  any  sj^ecial  amusement  or  light  accomplishment  as- 
sociated with  the  pleasant  memories  of  earlier  youth  ;  and 
remarkably  so,  I  believe,  when  the  amusement  or  accomplish- 
ment has  been  that  of  the  amateur  stage-player.  Certainly  I 
have  known  persons  of  very  grave  pursuits,  of  very  dignified 
character  and  position,  who  seem  to  regain  the  vivacity  of  boy- 
hood when  disguising  look  and  voice  for  a  part  in  some  draw- 
uig-room    comedy    or  charade.      I    might  name  statesnien  of 


j^S  THE  PARISIAI^. 

solemn  repute  rejoicing  to  raise  and  to  join  in  a  laugh  at  theii 
expense  in  such  travesty  of  their  habitual  selves. 

The  reader  must  not,  therefore,  be  surprised,  nor,  I  trust 
deem  it  inconsistent  with  the  more  serious  attributes  of  Gra- 
ham's character,  if  the  i:nglishman  felt  the  sort  of  joyous  ex- 
citement 1  describe,  as,  in  his  way  to  the  Cafe,  Jean  Jacques, 
he  meditated  the  role  he  had  undertaken  ;  and  the  joyousness 
was  heightened  beyond  the  mere  holiday  sense  of  humoristic 
pleasantry  by  the  sanguine  hope  that  much  to  affect  his  lasting 
happiness  might  result  from  the  success  of  the  object  for  which 
his  disguise  was  assumed. 

It  was  just  twenty  minutes  past  nine  when  he  arrived  at  the 
Cafe  Jean  Jacques.  He  dismissed  \\v^  fiacre  and  entered.  The 
apartment  devoted  to  customers  comprised  two  large  rooms. 
The  tirst  was  the  cafe  properly  speaking  ;  the  second,  opening 
on  it,  was  the  billiard-room.  Conjecturing  that  he  should  prob- 
ably find  the  person  of  whom  he  was  in  quest  employed  at  the 
billiard-table,  Graham  passed  thither  at  once.  A  tall  man,  who 
might  be  seven  and  forty,  with  a  long  black  beard  slightly 
grizzled,  was  at  play  with  a  young  man  of  perhaps  twenty 
eight,  who  gave  him  odds — as  better  players  of  twenty-eight 
ought  to  give  odds  to  a  player,  though  originally  of  equal  force, 
whose  eye  is  not  so  quick,  whose  hand  is  not  so  steady,  as  they 
were  twenty  years  ago.  Said  Graham  to  himself,  "  The 
bearded  man  is  my  Vicomte."  He  called  for  a  cup  of  coffee, 
and  seated  himself  on  a  bench  at  the  end  of  the  room. 

The  bearded  man  was  far  behind  in  the  game.  It  was  his 
turn  to  play  ;  the  balls  were  placed  in  the  most  awkward  pos- 
ition for  him.  Graham  himself  was  a  fair  billard-player,  both 
in  the  English  and  the  French  game.  He  said  to  himself  "  No 
man  who  can  made  a  cannon  there  should  accept  odds."  The 
bearded  man  made  a  cannon  ;  the  bearded  man  continued  to 
make  cannons  ;  the  bearded  man  did  not  stop  till  he  had  won 
the  game.  The  gallery  of  spectators  was  enthusiastic.  Tak- 
ing care  to  speak  in  very  bad,  very  English,  French,  Gra- 
ham expressed  to  one  of  the  enthusiasts  seated  beside  him 
his  admiration  of  the  bearded  man's  playing,  and  ventured 
to  ask  if  the  bearded  man  were  a  professional  or  an  amateur 
pi  aver. 

""  Monsieur,"  replied  the  enthusiast,  taking  a  short  cuttypipe 
from  his  mouth,  "  it  is  an  amateur,  who  has  been  a  great  player 
in  his  day,  and  is  so  proud  that  he  always  takes  less  odds  than 
he  ought'of  a  younger  man.     It  is  not  once  in  a  month  that  he 


THE  PARISIANS.  189 

comes  out  as  he  has  done  to-night  ;  but  to-night  he  has  stead- 
ied his  hand.     He  has  had  slxpefits  verres^ 

"  Ah,  indeed  !     Do  you  know  his  name  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  so  ;  he  buried  my  father,  my  two  aunts, 
and  my  wife." 

"  Buried  !"  said  Graham,  more  and  British  in  his  accent  : 
"  I  don't  understand." 

"  Monsieur,  you  are  EngHsh." 

"  I  confess  it." 

"  And  a  stranger  to  the  Faubourg  Montmartre." 

"  True." 

"  Or  you  would  have  heard  of  M.  Giraud,  the  Hvehest  mem- 
ber of  the  State  Company  for  conducting  funerals.  They  are 
going  to  play  La  Foule.'" 

Much  disconcerted,  Graham  retreated  into  the  cafe,  and 
seated  himself  haphazard  at  once  of  the  small  tables.  Glancing 
round  the  room,  he  saw  no  one  in  whom  he  could  conjecture 
the  once  brilliant  Vicomte. 

The  company  appeared  to  him  sufficiently  decenr,  and  es- 
pecially what  may  be  called  local.  There  were  some  blouses 
drinking  wine,  no  doubt  of  the  cheapest  and  thinnest  ;  some 
in  rough,  coarse  dresses,  drinking  beer.  These  were  evidently 
English,  Belgian,  or  German  artisans.  At  one  table,  four 
young  men,  who  looked  like  small  journeymen,  were  playing 
cards.  At  three  other  tables,  men  older,  better  dressed,  prob- 
ably shopkeepers,  were  playing  dominoes.  Graham  scrutinized 
these  last,  but  among  them  all  could  detect  no  one  correspond- 
ing to  his  ideal  of  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleton.  "  Probably," 
thought  he,  "I  am  too  late,  or  perhaps  he  will  not  be  here 
this  evening.  At  all  events,  I  will  wait  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 
Then,  the  garcon  approaching  his  table,  he  deemed  it  necessary 
to  call  for  something,  and  still,  in  strong  English  accent,  asked 
for  lemonade  and  an  evening  journal.  The  garcon  nodded, 
and  went  his  way.  A  monsieur  at  the  round  table  next  his  own 
politely  handed  to  him  the  "  Galignani."  saying,  in  very  good 
English,  though  unmistakably  the  good  English  of  a  French- 
man, "  The  English  journal,  at. your  service." 

Graham  bowed  his  head,  accepted  the  "Galignani,"  and 
inspected  his  courteous  neighbor.  A  more  respectable  look- 
ing man  no  Englishman  could  see  in  an  English  country  town. 
He  wore  an  unpretending  liaxcn  wig,  with  limp  whiskers  that 
met  at  the  chin,  and  might  originally  have  been  the  same  color 
as  the  wig,  but  were  now  of  a  pale  gray — no  beard,  no  mous- 
tache.    He  was  dressed   with  the  scrupulous  cleanliness  of  a 


190  THE  PARISIANS. 

sober  citizen — a  high  white  neckcloth,  with  a  large,  old-fash- 
ioned pin,  containing  a  little  knot  of  hair,  covered  with  glass  or 
crystal,  and  bordered  with  a  black  framework,  in  which  were 
inscribed  letters — evidently  a  mourning  pin,  hallowed  to  the 
memory  of  lost  spouse  or  child — a  man  who,  in  England,  might 
be  the  mayor  of  a  cathedral  town,  at  least  the  town  clerk.  He 
seemed  suffering  from  some  infirmity  of  vision,  for  he  wore 
green  spectacles.  The  expression  of  his  face  was  very  mild 
and  gentle ;  apparently  he  was  about  sixty  years  old — some- 
what more. 

Graham  took  kindly  to  his  neighbor,  insomuch  that,  in  re- 
turn for  the  "  Galignani,"  he  offered  him  a  cigar,  lighting  one 
himself. 

His  neighbor  refused  politely. 

'■'■  Merci  I  I  never  smoke — never;  vioii  viedecin  forbids  it. 
If  I  could  be  tempted,  it  would  be  by  an  English  cigar.  Ah, 
how  you  English  beat  us  in  all  things — your  ships,  your  iron, 
your  tabac — which  you  do  not  grow  !  " 

This  speech,  rendered  literally  as  we  now  render  it,  may 
give  the  idea  of  a  somewhat  vulgar  speaker.  But  there  was 
something  in  the  man's  manner,  in  his  smile,  in  his  courtesy, 
which  did  not  strike  Graham  as  vulgar  :  on  the  contrary,  he 
thought  withm  himself  "  how  instinctive  to  all  Frenchmen  good 
breeding  is  !  " 

Before,  however,  Graham  had  time  to  explain  to  his  ami- 
able neighbor  the  politico  economical  principle  according  to 
which  England,  growing  no  tobacco,  had  tobacco  much  bet- 
ter than  France  which  did  grow  it,  a  rosy,  middle-aged  mon- 
sieur made  his  appearance,  saying  hurriedly  to  Graham's 
neighbor, 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  late,  but  there  is  still  a  good  half-hour 
before  us  if  you  will  give  me  my  revenge." 

"Willingly,  M.  Georges.      Gar(o?i,  the  dominoes." 

"Have  you  been  playing  at  billiards?"  asked  M.  Georges. 

"  Yes,  two  games." 

"  With  success  ?" 

"  I  won  the  first,  and  lost  tlie  second  through  the  defect  of 
my  eyesight ;  the  game  depended  on  a  stroke  which  would 
have  been  easy  to  an  infant ;   I  missed  it." 

Here  the  dominoes  arrived,  and  M.  Georges  began  shuftling 
them  ;  the  other  turned  to  Graham,  and  asked  politely  if  he 
understood  the  game. 

"  A  little,  but  not  enough  to  comprehend  why  it  is  said  to 
require  so  much  skill." 


THE  PARISIANS. 


igi 


"  It  is  chiefly  an  affair  of  memory  with  me  ;  but  M.  Georges, 
my  opponent,  has  the  talent  of  combination,  which  I  have  not." 

"  Nevertheless,"  replied   M.  Georges,  gruffly,  "  you  are  not 
easily  beaten  ;  it  is  for  you  to  play  first,  M.  Lebeau." 

Graham  almost  started.  Was  it  possible  ?  This  mild,  limp- 
whiskered,  flaxen-wigged  man,  Victor  de  Maul  on,  the  Don  Juan 
of  his  time  !  the  last  person  in  the  room  he  should  have  guessed. 
Vet  now,  examining  his  neighbor  with  more  attentive  eye,  he 
.vondered  at  his  stupidity  in  not  having  recognized  at  once  the 
ct-devant  gentilhomme  and  beau  garcoii.  It  happens  frequently 
that  our  imagination  plays  us  this  trick ;  we  form  to  ourselves 
an  idea  of  some  one  eminent  for  good  or  for  evil — a  poet,  a 
statesman,  a  general,  a  murderer,  a  swindler,  a  thief  :  the  man 
is  before  us,  and  our  ideas  have  gone  into  so  different  a  groove 
that  he  does  not  excite  a  suspicion.  We  are  told  who  he  is, 
and  immediately  detect  a  thousand  things  that  ought  to  have 
proved  his  identity. 

Looking  thus  again  with  rectified  vision  at  the  false  Lebeau 
Graham  observed  an  elegance  and  delicacy  of  feature  which 
might  in  youth  have  made  the  countenance  very  handsome,  and 
rendered  it  still  good-looking,  nay,  prepossessing.  He  now 
noticed,  too,  the  slight  Norman  accent,  its  native  harshness  of 
breadth  subdued  into  the  modulated  tones  which  bespoke  the 
habits  of  polished  society.  Above  all,  as  M.  Lebeau  moved 
his  dominoes  with  one  hand,  not  shielding  his  pieces  with  the 
other  (as  M.  Georges  warily  did),  but  allowing  it  to  rest  care- 
lessly on  the  table,  he  detected  the  hands  of  the  French  aris- 
tocrat; hands  that  had  never  done  work — never  (like  those  of 
the  English  noble  of  equal  birth)  been  embrowned  or  freckled, 
or  roughened  or  enlarged  by  early  practice  in  athletic  sports  ; 
but  hands  seldom  seen  save  in  the  higher  circles  of  Parisian 
life — partly  perhaps  of  hereditary  formation,  partly  owing  their 
texture  to  great  care  begun  in  early  youth  and  continued  me- 
chanically in  after-life — with  long  taper  fingers  and  polished 
nails  ;  white  and  delicate  as  those  of  a  young  woman,  but  not 
slight,  not  feeble  ;  nervous  and  sinewy  as  those  of  a  practised 
swordsman, 

Graham  watched  the  play,  and  Lebeau  good-naturedly  ex- 
plained to  him  its  complications  as  it  proceeded  ;  though  the  ex- 
planation, diligently  attended  to  by  M.  Georges,  lost  Lebeau 
the  game. 

The  dominoes  were  again  shuffled,  and  during  that  opera- 
tion M.  Georges  said,  "  By  the  way,  M.  Lebeau,  you  promised 


1 92  THE  PARISIANS. 

to  find  me  a  locatairc   for   my   second   floor ;    liave   you    sue 
ceeded  ? " 

"  Not  yet.  Perhaps  you  had  better  advertise  in  Les  Petitei 
Affiches.  You  ask  too  much  for  the  habitues  of  this  nelglabor 
hood — one  hundred  francs  a  month." 

"  But  the  lodging  is  furnished,  and  well  too,  and  has  four 
rooms.     One  hundred  francs  are  not  much." 

A  thought  flashed  upon  Graham.  "  Pardon,  Monsieur  '  he 
said,  "  have  }^ou  an  apartmatt  dc  gavcon  to  let  furnished  }  " 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,  a  charming  one.  Are  you  in  search  of  an 
apartment }  " 

"  I  have  some  idea  of  taking  one,  but  only  by  the  month. 
I  am  but  just  arrived  at  Paris,  and  1  have  business  which  may 
keep  me  here  a  few  weeks.  I  do  but  require  a  bedroom  and  a 
cabinet,  and  the  rent  must  be  modest.     I  am  not  a  tnilord:' 

•'  I  am  sure  we  could  arrange,  Monsieur,"  said  M.  Georges, 
"  though  I  could  not  well  di\'ide  my  logemcnt.  Put  one  hundred 
francs  a  month  is  not  much  " 

"  I  fear  it  is  more  than  I  can  afford  ;  however,  if  you  will 
give  me  your  address,  I  will  call  and  see  the  rooms, — say  the  day 
after  to-morrow.  Between  this  and  then  I  expect  letters  which 
may  more  clearly  decide  my  movements." 

"  If  the  apartments  suit  you,"  said  M.  Lebeau,  "you  will 
at  least  be  in  the  house  of  a  very  honest  man,  which  is  more 
than  can  be  said  of  every  one  who  lets  furnished  apartments. 
The  house,  too,  has  a  concierge,  with  a  handy  wife  who  will  ar- 
range your  rooms  and  provide  you  with  coffee — or  tea,  which 
you  English  prefer — if  you  breakfast  at  home." 

Here  M.  Georges  handed  a  card  to  Graham,  and  asked 
what  hour  he  would  call.     - 

"  About  twelve,  if  that  hour  is  convenient,"  said  Graham, 
rising.  "  I  presume  there  is  a  restaurant  in  the  neighborhood 
where  I  could  dine  reasonably  !" 

"■Je  crois  bien — half  a  dozen.  I  can  recommend  you  to  one 
where  you  can  dine  enprince  for  thirty  sous.  And  if  you  are  at 
Paris  on  business,  and  want  any  letters  written  in  private,  I 
can  also  recommend  to  you  my  friends  here,  M.  Lebeau.  Ah, 
on  affairs  his  advice  is  as  good  as  a  lawyer's,  and  his  fee  a 
bagatelle  r 

"  Don't  believe  all  that  M.  Georges  so  flatteringly  says  of 
me,"  put  in  M.  Lebeau,  with  a  modest  half-smile,  and  in  'Eng- 
lish. "  I  should  tell  you  that  I,  like  yourself,  am  recently  ar- 
rived at  Paris,  having  bought  the  business  and  good  will  of  mv 


THE  PARISIANS.  193 

predecessor  in  the  apaitment  I  occupy;  and  it  is  only  to  the 
respect  due  to  his  antecedents,  and  on  the  score  of  a  few  letters 
of  recommendation  which  I  bring  from  Lyons,  that  I  can  at- 
tribute the  confidence  shown  to  me,  a  stranger  in  this  neigh- 
borhood. Still,  I  have  some  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  I  am 
always  glad  if  I  can  be  of  service  to  the  English.  I  love  the 
English" — he  said  this  with  a  sort  of  melancholy  earnestness 
which  seemed  sincere  ;  and  then  added,  in  a  more  careless  tone 
"  I  have  met  with  much  kindness  from  them  in  the  course  of  a 
checkered  life." 

"You  seem  a  very  good  fellow — in  fact,  a  regular  trump, 
M.  Lebeau,"  replied  Graham,  in  the  same  language.  "  Give 
me  your  address.  To  say  truth,  I  am  a  very  poor  French 
scholar,  as  you  must  have  seen,  and  am  awfully  bother-headed 
how  to  manage  some  correspondence  on  matters  with  which  I 
am  intrusted  by  my  employer,  so  that  it  is  a  lucky  chance 
which  has  brought  me  acquainted  with  you." 

M.  Lebeau  inclined  his  head  gracefully,  and  drew  from  a 
very  neat  morocco  case  a  card,  which  Graham  took  and  pocketed. 
Then  he  paid  for  his  coffee  and  lemonade,  and  returned  home 
well  satisfied  with  the  evening's  adventure. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

The  next  morning  Graham  sent  for  M.  Renard  and  con- 
sulted with  that  experienced  functionary  as  to  the  details  of 
the  plan  of  action  which  he  had  revolved  during  the  hours  of  a 
sleepless  night. 

"  In  conformity  with  your  advice,"  said  he,  "  not  to  expose 
myself  to  the  chance  of  future  annoyance,  by  confiding  to  a 
man  so  dangerous  as  the  false  Lebeau  my  name  and  address, 
I  propose  to  take  the  lodging  offered  to  me,  as  Mr.  Lamb,  an 
attorney's  clerk,  commissioned  to  get  in  certain  debts,  and 
transact  other  matters  of  business,  on  behalf  of  his  employer's 
clients.  I  suppose  there  will  be  no  difficulty  with  the  police  in 
this  change  of  name,  now  that  passports  for  the  English  are  not 
necessary  ? " 

"  Certainly  not.     You  will  have  no  trouble  in  that  respect." 

"  I  shall  thus  be  enabled  very  naturally  to  improve  acquain 


xg4  ^-^^^  PARISIANS. 

tance  with  the  professional  letter-writer,  and  find  an  easy 
opportunity  to  introduce  the  name  of  Louise  Duval.  My  chief 
difficulty,  J  fear,  not  being  a  practical  actor,  will  be  to  keep  up 
consistently  the  queer  sort  of  language  I  have  adopted,  both 
in  French  and  in  English,  I  have  too  sharp  a  critic  in  a  man 
so  consummate  himself  in  a  stage  trick  and  disguise  as  M. 
Lebeau,  not  to  feel  the  necessity  of  getting  through  my  role  as 
quickly  as  I  can.  Meanwhile,  can  you  recommend  me  to  some 
magasin  where  I  can  obtain  a  suitable  change  of  costume  ?  I 
can't  always  wear  a  travelling  suit,  and  I  must  buy  linen  of 
coarser  texture  than  mine,  and  with  the  initials  of  my  new  name 
inscribed  on  it." 

"  Quite  right  to  study  such  details  ;  I  will  introduce  you  to 
a  magasin  near  the  Temple,  where  you  will  find  all  you  want." 

"  Next,  have  you  any  friends  or  relations  in  the  provinces 
unknown  to  M.  Lebeau,  to  whom  I  might  be  supposed  to  write 
about  debts  or  business  matters,  and  from  whom  I  might  have 
replies  ?  '' 

"  I  will  think  over  it,  and  manage  that  for  you  very  easily. 
Your  letters  shall  find  their  way  to  me,  and  I  will  dictate  the 
answers." 

After  some  further  conversation  on  that  business,  M.  Renard 
made  an  appointment  to  meet  Graham  at  a  cafe  near  the  Temple 
later  in  the  afternoon,  and  took  his  departure. 

Graham  then  informed  his  laquais  de place  that,  though  he 
kept  on  his  lodgings,  he  was  going  into  the  country  for  a  few 
days,  and  should  not  want  the  man's  services  till  he  returned. 
He  therefore  dismissed  and  paid  him  off  at  once,  so  that  the 
laquais  might  not  observe,  when  he  quitted  his  rooms  the  next 
day,  that  he  took  with  him  no  change  of  clothes,  etc. 


THE  PARISIANS. 


»95 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Graham  Vane  has  been  for  some  days  in  the  apartment 
rented  of  M.  Georges.  He  takes  it  in  the  name  of  Mr.  Lamb 
— a  name  wisely  chosen,  less  common  than  Thomson  and  Smith, 
less  likely  to  be  supposed  an  assumed  name,  yet  common 
enough  not  to  be  able  easily  to  trace  it  to  any  special  family. 
He  appears,  as  he  had  proposed,  in  the  character  of  an  agent 
employed  by  a  solicitor  in  London  to  execute  sundry  commis- 
sions and  to  collect  certain  outstanding  debts.  There  is  no 
need  to  mention  the  name  of  the  solicitor ;  if  there  were,  he 
could  give  the  name  of  his  own  solicitor,  to  whose  discretion 
he  could  trust  implicitly.  He  dresses  and  acts  up  to  his  as- 
sumed character  with  the  skill  of  a  man  who,  like  the  illustri- 
ous Charles  Fox,  has,  though  in  private  representations  prac- 
tised the  stage-play  in  which  Demosthenes  said  the  triple  art 
of  oratory  consisted — who  has  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world, 
and  has  that  adaptability  of  intellect  which  knowledge  of  the 
world  lends  to  one  who  is  so  thoroughly  in  earnest  as  to  his 
end  that  he  agrees  to  be  sportive  as  to  his  means. 

The  kind  of  language  he  employs  when  speaking  English 
to  Lebeau  is  that  suited  to  the  role  of  a  dapper  young  under- 
ling of  vulgar  mind  habituated  to  vulgar  companionships.  I 
feel  it  due,  if  not  to  Graham  himself,  at  least  to  the  memory 
of  the  dignified  orator  whose  name  he  inherits,  so  to  modify 
and  soften  the  hardy  style  of  that  peculiar  diction  in  which 
he  disguises  his  birth  and  disgraces  his  culture,  that  it  is  only 
here  and  there  that  I  can  venture  to  indicate  the  general  tone 
of  it.  But  in  order  to  supply  my  deficiencies  therein,  the 
reader  has  only  to  call  to  mind  the  forms  of  phraseology  which 
polite  novelists  in  vogue,  especially  young  lady  novelists,  as- 
cribe to  well-born  gentlemen,  and  more  emphatically  to  those 
in  the  higher  ranks  of  the  Peerage.  No  doubt  Graham  in  his 
capacity  of  critic  had  been  compelled  to  read,  in  order  to  re- 
view, those  contributions  to  refined  literature,  and  had  famil- 
iarized himself  to  a  vein  of  conversation  abounding  with 
"  swell,"  and  "  stunner,"  and  "  awfully  jolly,"  in  its  libel  on 
manners  and  outrage  on  taste. 

He  has  attended  nightly  the  Cafe  jfean  Jacqjies ;  he  has 
improved  acquaintance  with  M.  Georges  and   M.   Lebeau ;    he 


ig6 


THE  FAR/SIAA'i>. 


has  played  at  billiards,  he  has  played  at  dominoes,  with  the 
latter.  He  has  been  much  surprised  at  the  unimpeachable 
lionesty  which  M.  Lebeau  has  exhibited  in  both  these  games. 
In  billiards,  indeed,  a  man  cannot  cheat  except  by  disguising 
his  strength;  it  is  much  the  same  in  dominoes, — it  is  skill 
combined  with  luck,  as  in  whist;  but  in  whist  there  are 
modes  or  cheating  which  dominoes  do  not  allow, — you  can't 
mark  a  domino  as  you  can  a  card.  It  was  perfectly  clear  to 
Graham  that  M.  Lebeau  did  not  gain  a  livelihood  by  billiards 
ox  dom\noe.s  aX  iht  Cafe  Jean  Jacques.  In  the  former  he  was 
not  only  a  fair  but  a  generous  player.  He  played  exceedingly 
well,  despite  his  spectacles  ;  but  he  gave,  with  something  of  a 
Frenchman's  \ohy  faJifaron?iade,  larger  odds  to  his  adversary 
than  his  play  justified.  In  dominoes,  where  such  odds  could 
not  well  be  given,  he  insisted  on  playing  such  small  stakes  as 
two  or  three  francs  might  cover.  In  short,  M.  Lebeau  puzzled 
Graham.  All  about  M.  Lebeau,  his  manner,  his  talk  was  ir- 
reproachable, and  baffled  suspicion ;  except  in  this,  Graham 
gradually  discovered  that  the  cafe  had  a  quasi  political  character. 
Listening  to' talkers  round  him,  he  overheard  much  that  might 
well  have  shocked  the  notions  of  a  modern  Liberal ;  much  that 
held  in  disdain  the  objects  to  which,  in  1869,  an  English  Radi- 
cal directed  his  aspirations.  Vote  by  ballot,  universal  suf- 
frage, etc., — such  objects  the  French  had  already  attained. 
By  the  talkers  at  the  Cafe  Jean  Jacques  they  were  deemed  to  be 
the  tricky  contrivances  of  tyranny.  In  fact,  the  talk  w^as  more 
scornful  of  what  Englishmen  vuiderstand  by  radicalism  or  de- 
mocracy than  Graham  had  ever  heard  from  the  lips  of  an  ultra 
Toiy.  It  assumed  a  strain  of  Philosophy  far  above  the  vulgar 
squabbles  of  ordinary  party  politicians — a  philosophy  which  took 
for  its  fundamental  principles  the  destruction  of  religion  and  of 
private  property.  These  two  objects  seemed  dependent  the 
one  on  the  other.  The  philosophers  of  the  Jean  Jacques  held 
with  that  expounder  of  Internationalism,  EugSne  Dupont, 
"  Nous  ne  voulons  plus  de  religion,  car  les  religions  dtouffeni 
I'intelligence."*  Now  and  then,  indeed,  a  dissentient  voice 
was  raised  as  to  the  existence  of  a  Supreme  Being,  but,  with 
one  exception,  it  soon  sank  into  silence.  No  voice  was  raised 
in  defence  of  private  property.  These  sages  appeared  for  the 
most  part  to  belong  to  the  class  of  ouvriers  or  artisans.  Some 
of    them    were    foreigners — Belgian,    German,    English ;     all 

*  Discours  par  Eugene  Dupont  a  la   Cloture  du  congr^s  de   Bruxelles. 
Sept.  3,  1S6S. 


THE  PARISIANS. 


197 


seemed  well  off  for  their  calling.  Indeed,  they  must  have  had 
comparatively  high  wages,  to  judge  by  their  dress  and  the 
money  they  spent  on  regaling  themselves.  The  language  of 
several  was  well  chosen,  at  times  eloquent.  Some  brought  with 
them  women  who  seemed  respectable,  and  who  often  joined  in 
the  conversation,  especially  when  it  turned  upon  the  law  of 
marriage  as  a  main  obstacle  to  all  personal  liberty  and  social 
improvement.  If  this  was  a  subject  on  which  the  women  did 
not  all  agree,  still  they  discussed  it,  without  prejudice  and  with 
admirable  sangfroid.  Yet  many  of  them  looked  like  wives 
and  mothers.  Now  and  then  a  young  journeyman  brought 
with  him  a  young  lady  of  more  doubtful  aspect,  but  such  a 
couple  kept  aloof  from  the  others.  Now  and  then,  too,  a  man 
evidently  of  higher  station  than  that  of  ouvrier,  and  who  was 
received  by  the  philosophers  with  courtesy  and  respect,  joined 
one  of  the  tables  and  ordered  a  bowl  of  punch  for  general  par- 
ticipation. In  such  occasional  visitors,  Graham,  still  listening, 
detected  a  writer  of  the  press  ;  now  and  then,  a  small  artist, 
or  actor,  or  medical  student.  Among  the  habitues  there  was 
one  man,  an  ouvrter,  in  whom  Graham  could  not  help  feeling 
an  interest.  He  was  called  Monnier,  sometimes  more  famil- 
iarly Armand,  his  baptismal  appellation.  This  man  had  a  bold 
and  honest  expression  of  countenance.  He  talked  like  one 
who,  if  he  had  not  read  much,  had  thought  much  on  the  subjects 
he  loved  to  discuss.  He  argued  against  the  capital  of  em- 
ployers quite  as  ably  as  Mr.  Mill  has  argued  against  the  rights 
of  property  in  land.  He  was  still  more  eloquent  against  the 
laws  of  marriage  and  heritage.  But  his  was  the  one  voice  not  to 
be  silenced  in  favor  of  a  Supreme  Being.  He  had  at  least  the 
courage  of  his  opinions,  and  was  always  thoroughly  in  earnest. 
M.  Lebeau  seemed  to  know  this  man,  and  honored  him  with  a 
nod  and  a  smile,  when  passing  by  him  to  the  table  he  gener- 
ally occupied.  This  familiarity  with  a  man  of  that  class,  and 
of  opinions  so  extreme,  excited  Graham's  curiosity.  One 
evening  he  said  to  Lebeau,  "  A  queer  fellow  that  you  have 
just  nodded  to." 

"  How  so  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  has  queer  notions. 

"  Notions  shared,  I  believe,  by  many  of  your  countrymen." 

"  I  should  think  not  many.  Those  poor  simpletons  yonder 
may  have  caught  them  from  their  French  fellow-workmen,  but 
I  don't  think  that  even  the  gobemouches  in  our  National  Reform 
Society  open  their  mouths  to  swallow  such  wasps." 


^gS  THE  PARISIANS. 

"  Yet  I  believe  the  association  to  which  most  of  those 
ouvriers  belong  had  its  origin  in  England." 

"  Indeed  !  what  association  ?  " 

"  The  International." 

"  Ah,  I  ha\-e  heard  of  that." 

Lebeau  turned  his  green  spectacles  full  on  Graham's  face  as 
he  said,  slowl}',  "  And  what  do  you  think  of  it  1  ' 

Graham  prudently  checked  the  disparaging  reply  that  first 
occurred  to  him,  and  said,  "  I  know  so  little  about  it  that  I 
would  rather  ask  you." 

"  I  think  it  might  become  formidable  if  it  found  able  leaders 
who  knew  how  to  use  it.  Pardon  me — how  came  you  to  know 
of  this  cafe  ?     Were  you  recommended  to  it  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  happened  to  be  in  this  neighborhood  on  business, 
and  walked  in,  as  I  might  into  any  other  cafe." 

"  You  don't  interest  yourself  in  the  great  social  questions 
which  are  agitated  below  the  surface  of  this  best  of  all  possible 
worlds  ? " 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  trouble  my  head  much  about  them." 

"  A  game  at  dominoes  before  M.  Georges  arrives  ?" 

"  Willingly.  Is  M.  Georges  one  of  those  agitators  below 
the  surface  .?" 

*'  No  indeed.     It  is  for  you  to  play." 

Here  M.  Georges  arrived,  and  no  further  conversation  on 
political  or  social  questions  ensued. 

Graham  had  already  called  more  than  once  at  M.  Lebeau's 
office,  and  asked  him  to  put  into  good  French  various  letters  on 
matters  of  business,  the  subjects  of  which  had  been  furnished 
by  jSI.  Renard.  The  office  was  rather  imposing  and  stately, 
considering  the  modest  nature  of  M.  Lebeau's  ostensible  pro- 
fession. It  occupied  the  entire  ground-floor  of  a  corner  house, 
with  a  front  door  at  one  angle  and  a  back  door  at  the  other. 
The  anteroom  to  his  cabinet,  and  in  which  Graham  had  gen- 
erally to  wait  some  minutes  before  he  was  introduced,  was 
generally  well  filled,  and  not  only  by  persons  who,  by  their 
dress  and  outward  appearance,  might  be  fairly  supposed  suf- 
ficiently illiterate  to  require  his  aid  as  polite  letter-writers — not 
only  by  servant-maids  and  grisetfcs,  by  sailors,  zouaves,  and 
journeymen  workmen — but  not  unfrequently  by  clients  evident- 
ly belonging  to  a  higher,  or  at  least  a  richer,  class  of  society, — 
men  with  clothes  made  by  a  fashionable  tailor — men,  again, 
who,  less  fashionably  attired,  looked  like  opulent  tradesmen 
and  fathers  of  well-to-do  families — the  first  generally  young, 
ine  last  generally  middle-aged.     All  these  denizens  of  a  higher 


THE  PARISIANS.  igg 

world  were  Introduced  by  a  saturnine  clerk  into  M.  Lebeau's 
reception-room  very  quickly,  and  in  precedence  of  the  ouvriers 
and  grisettes. 

"  What  can  this  mean  ?"  thought  Graham.  "  Is  it  really 
that  this  humble  business  avowed  is  the  cloak  to  some  political 
conspiracy  concealed — the  International  Association  ?"  And, 
80  pondering,  the  clerk  one  day  singled  him  from  the  crowd 
and  admitted  him  into  M.  Lebeau's  cabinet.  Graham  thought 
the  time  had  now  arrived  when  he  might  safely  approach  the 
subject  that  brought  him  to  the  Faubourg  Monnnartre. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  said  Graham,  speaking  in  the  English 
of  a  young  earl  in  our  elegant  novels — "  you  uie  very  good  to 
let  me  in  while  you  have  so  many  swells  and  nobs  waiting  for 
you  in  the  other  room.  But  I  say,  old  fellow,  you  have  not  the 
cheek  to  tell  me  that  they  want  you  to  corre  .:t  their  cocker  or 
spoon  for  them  by  proxy  .-"' 

"  Pardon  me,"  answered  M.  Lebeau  in  French,  "  If  I  prefer 
my  own  language  in  replying  to  you.  I  .«^peak  the  English  I 
learned  many  years  ago,  and  your  language,  in  the  beau  monde, 
to  which  you  evidently  belong,  is  strange  to  me.  You  are 
quite  right,  however,  in  your  surmise  that  I  have  other  clients 
than  those  who,  like  yourself,  think  I  could  correct  their  verbs 
or  their  spelling.  I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world, — I 
know  something  of  it,  and  something  of  the  law  ;  so  that  many 
persons  come  to  me  for  advice  and  for  legal  information  on 
terms  more  moderate  than  those  of  an  avoue.  But  m}^  ante- 
chamber is  full,  I  am  pressed  for  time  ;  excuse  me  if  I  ask  you 
to  say  at  once  in  what  I  can  be  agreeable  to  you  to-day." 

"  Ah  !"  said  Graham,  assuming  a  very  earnest  look,  "  you 
do  know  the  world,  that  is  clear  ;  and  you  do  know  the  law  of 
France — eh  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  little." 

"  What  I  wanted  to  say  at  present  may  have  something  to 
do  with  French  law,  and  I  meant  to  ask  you  either  to  recommend 
to  me  a  sharp  lawyer,  or  to  tell  me  how  I  can  best  get  at  your 
famous  police  here." 

"  Police  ?" 

"  I  think  I  may  require  the  service  of  one  of  those  officers 
whom  in  England  we  call  detectives ;  but  if  you  are  busy  now, 
I  can  call  to-morrow." 

"  I  spare  you  two  minutes.  Say  at  once,  dear  Monsieur, 
what  you  want  with  law  or  police." 

"  I  am  instructed  to  find  out  the  address  of  a  certain  Louise 


200  THE  PARISIANS. 

Duval,   daughter  of  a  drawing-master  named  Adolphe  Duval 
living  in  the  Rue in  the  year  1848." 

Graham,  while  he  thus  said,  naturally  looked  Lebeau  in 
the  face — not  pryingly,  not  significantly,  but  as  a  man  gener- 
ally does  look  in  the  face  the  other  man  whom  he  accosts 
seriously.  The  change  in  the  face  he  regarded  was  slight,  hut 
it  was  unmistakable.  It  was  the  sudden  meeting  of  the  eye- 
brows, accompanied  with  the  sudden  jerk  of  the  shoulder  and 
bend  of  the  neck,  which  betoken  a  man  taken  by  surprise  and 
who  pauses  to  reflect  before  he  replies.  His  pause  was  but 
momentary. 

"  For  what  object  is  this  address  required  ?" 

*'  That  I  don't  know  ;  but  evidently  for  some  advantage  to 
Madame  or  Mademoiselle  Duval,  if  still  alive,  because  my 
employer  authorizes  me  to  spend  no  less  than  ;^ioo  in  ascer- 
taining where  she  is,  if  alive,  or  where  she  was  buried,  if  dead  ; 
and  if  other  means  fail,  I  am  instructed  to  advertise  to  the 
effect — '  That  if  Louise  Duval,  or,  in  case  of  her  death,  any 
children  of  hers  living  in  the  year  1849,  will  communicate 
with  some  person  whom  1  may  appoint  at  Paris, — such 
intelligence,  authenticated,  may  prove  to  the  advantage  of  the 
party  advertised  for.'  I  am,  however,  told  not  to  resort  to 
this  means  without  consulting  either  with  a  legal  adviser  or  the 
police." 

"  Hem  ! — have  you  inquired  at  the  house  where  this  lady 
was,  you  say,  living  in  1848  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  have  done  that ;  but  very  clumsily,  I  dare  say 
— through  a  friend — and  learned  nothing.  Bnt  I  must  not  keep 
you  now.  I  think  I  shall  apply  at  once  to  the  police.  What 
should  I  say  when  I  get  to  the  bureau  ?" 

"  Stop,  Monsieur,  stop.  I  do  not  advise  you  to  ai:ply  to 
the  police.  It  would  be  waste  of  time  and  money.  AILav 
me  to  think  over  the  matter.  I  shall  see  you  this  evening 
at  the  Cafe  Jean  Jacques  at  eight  o'clock.  Till  then  do 
nothing." 

"  All  right :  I  obey  you.  The  whole  thing  is  out  of  m)i  way 
of  business — awfully.     Bon-jour.'^ 


THE  PARISIAXS.  201 


CHAPTER  IX, 

Punctually  at  eight  o'clock  Graham  Vane  had  taken  h:s 
seat  at  a  corner  table  at  the  remote  end  of  the  Cafe  yean 
yacques,  called  for  his  cup  of  coffee  and  his  evening  journal, 
and  awaited  the  arrival  of  M.  Lebeau.  His  patience  was  not 
tasked  long.  In  a  few  minutes  the  Frenchman  entered,  paused 
at  the  comptoir,  as  was  his  habit,  to  address  a  polite  salutation 
to  the  well-dressed  lady  who  there  presided,  nodded  as  usual 
to  Armand  Monnier,  then  glanced  round,  recognized  Graham 
with  a  smile,  and  approached  his  table  with  the  quiet  grace  of 
movement  by  which  he  was  distinguished. 

Seating  himself  opposite  to  Graham,  and  speaking  in  a 
voice  too  low  to  be  heard  by  others,  and  in  French,  he  then 
said — • 

"  In  thinking  over  your  communication  this  morning,  it 
strikes  me  as  probable,  perhaps  as  certain,  that  this  Louise 
Duval,  or  her  children,  if  she  have  any,  must  be  entitled  to 
some  moneys  bequeathed  to  her  by  a  relation  or  friend  in  Eng- 
land.    What  do  you  say  to  that  assumption,  M.  Lamb  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  sharp  fellow,"  answered  Graham.  "  Just  what 
I  say  to  myself.  Why  else  should  I  be  instructed  to  go  to 
such  expense  in  finding  her  out  ?  Most  likely,  if  one  can't 
trace  her,  or  her  children  born  before  the  date  named,  any  such 
moneys  will  go  to  some  one  else  ;  and  that  some  one  else,  who- 
ever he  be,  has  commissioned  my  employer  to  find  out.  But  I 
don't  imagine  any  sum  due  to  her  or  her  heirs  can  be  much  or 
that  the  matter  is  very  important;  for,  if  so,  the  thing  we  uld 
not  be  carelessly  left  in  the  hands  of  one  of  the  small  fry  like 
myself,  and  clapped  in  along  with  a  lot  of  other  business  as  an 
off-hand  job." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  who  employed  you  }  " 

"  No,  I  don't  feel  authorized  to  do  that  at  present,  and  I 
don't  see  the  necessity  of  it.  It  seems  to  me,  on  consideration, 
a  matter  for  the  police  to  ferret  out ;  only,  as  I  asked  before, 
how  should  I  get  at  the  police  ?  " 

"  That  is  not  difficult.  It  is  just  possible  that  I  might  help 
you  better  than  any  lawyer  or  any  detective." 

"  Why,  did  you  ever  know  this  Louise  Duval }  " 


202  I^^^E  PARISIANS. 

"  Excuse  me,  M.  Lamb  :  you  refuse  me  your  full  confidence  ; 
allow  me  to  imitate  your  reserve," 

"  Oho  !  "  said  Graham  ;  "  shut  up  as  close  as  you  like  ;  it  is 
nothing  to  me.  Only  observe,  there  is  this  difference  between 
us,  that  I  am  employed  by  another.  He  does  not  authorize  me 
to  name  him;  and  if  I  did  commit  that  indiscretion,  I  might 
lose  my  bread  and  cheese.  Whereas  you  have  nobody's  secret 
fo  guard  but  your  own,  in  saying  whether  or  not  you  ever  knew 
a  Madame  or  Mademoiselle  Duval.  And  if  you  have  some  rea- 
son for  not  getting  me  the  information  I  am  instructed  to  ob- 
tain, that  is  also  a  reason  for  not  troubling  you  further.  And 
after  all,  old  boy,"  (with  a  familiar  slap  on  Lebeau's  stately 
shoulder) — "  after  all,  it  is  I  who  would  employ  you  ;  you  don't 
employ  me.  And  if  you  find  out  the  lady,  it  is  you  who  would 
get  the  ^loo,  not  I." 

M.  Lebeau  mechanically  brushed,  with  a  light  movement  of 
hand,  the  shoulder  which  the  Englishman  had  so  pleasantly 
touched,  drew  himself  and  chair  some  inches  back,  and  said, 
slowly — 

"  M.  Lamb,  let  us  talk  as  gentleman  to  gentleman.  Put 
aside  the  question  of  money  altogether.  I  must  first  know  why 
your  employer  wants  to  hunt  out  this  poor  Louise  Duval.  It 
may  be  to  her  injury,  and  I  would  do  her  none  if  you  offered 
thousands  where  you  offer  pounds.  I  forestall  the  condition  of 
mutual  confidence  ;  I  own  that  I  have  known  her — it  is  many 
years  ago ;  and,  M.  Lamb,  though  a  Frenchman  very  often  in- 
jures a  woman  from  love,  he  is  in  a  worse  plight  for  bread  and 
cheese  than  I  am  if  he  injures  her  for  money." 

"  Is  he  thinking  of  the  duchess's  jewels  ?  "  thought  Graham. 

"  Bravo,  mon  vteiix,^''  he  said  aloud ;  "  but  as  I  don't  know 
what  my  employer's  motive  in  his  commission  is,  perhaps  you 
can  enlighten  me.  How  could  his  inquiry  injure  Louise 
Duval  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say  ;  but  you  English  have  the  power  to  di\'c  rce 
your  wives.  Louise  Duval  may  have  married  an  Englishuian, 
separated  from  him,  and  he  wants  to  know  where  he  can  find, 
in  order  to  criminate  and  divorce  her,  or  it  may  be  to  insist  on 
her  return  to  him." 

"  Bosh  !  that  is  not  likely." 

"  Perhaps,  then,  some  English  friend  she  may  have  known 
has  left  her  a  bequest,  which  would  of  course  lapse  to  some  one 
else  if  she  be  not  livinjr." 

"  By  gad  !  "  cried  Graham,  "  I  think  yoa  hit  the  right  nail 
on  the  head  ;  c'est  cela.     But  what  then  t  " 


THE  PARISIANS. 


203 


"  Wei],  if  I  thought  any  substantial  benefit  to  Louise  Duval 
might  result  from  the  success  of  your  inquiry,  I  would  really 
see  if  it  were  in  my  power  to  help  you.  But  I  must  have  time 
to  consider." 

"  How  long  ?  " 

"  I  can't  exactly  say ;  perhaps  three  or  four  days." 

*■'•  BoTi !  I  will  wait.  Here  comes  M.  Georges,  I  leave 
rou  to  dominoes  and  him.     Good-night." 

Late  that  night  M.  Lebeau  was  seated  alone  in  a  chamber 
connected  with  the  cabinet  in  which  he  received  visitors.  A 
ledger  was  open  before  him,  which  he  scanned  with  careful 
eyes,  no  longer  screened  by  spectacles.  The  survey  seemed  to 
satisfy  him.  He  murmured,  "  It  suffices — the  time  has  come  ; '' 
closed  the  book — returned  it  to  his  bureau,  which  he  locked 
up — and  then  wrote  in  cipher  the  letter  here  reduced  into  Eng- 
lish :— 

"  Dear  and  noble  Friend, — Events  march  ;  the  Empire  is 
everywhere  undermined.  Our  treasury  has  thriven  in  my 
hands ;  the  sums  subscribed  and  received  by  me  through  3'ou 
have  become  more  than  quadrupled  by  advantageous  specula- 
tions, in  which  M.  Georges  has  been  a  most  trustworthy  agent. 
A  portion  of  them  I  have  continued  to  employ  in  the  mode 
suggested — viz.,  in  bringing  together  men  discreetly  chosen  as 
being  in  their  various  ways  representatives  and  ringleaders  of 
the  motley  varieties  that,  when  united  at  the  right  moment, 
form  a  Parisian  mob.  But  from  that  right  moment  we  are  as 
yet  distant.  Before  we  can  call  passion  into  action,  we  must 
prepare  opinion  for  change.  I  propose  now  to  devote  no  in- 
considerable portion  of  our  fund  towards  the  inauguration  of  a 
journal  which  shall  graduajly  give  voice  to  our  designs.  Trust 
to  mc  to  insure  its  success  and  obtain  the  aid  of  writers  who 
will  have  no  notion  of  the  uses  to  which  they  ultimately  con- 
tribute. Now  that  the  time  has  come  to  establish  for  ourselves 
an  organ  in  the  press,  addressing  higli^er  orders  of  intelligence 
than  those  which  are  needed  to  destroy,  ana  mcapaoie  of  re- 
constructing, the  time  has  also  arrived  for  the  reappearance  in 
his  proper  name  and  rank  of  the  man  in  whom  you  take  so  gra- 
cious an  interest.  In  vain  you  have  pressed  him  to  do  so  be- 
fore ;  till  now  he  had  not  amassed  together,  by  the  slow  process 
of  petty  gains  and  constant  savings,  with  such  additions  as  pru- 
dent speculations  on  his  own  account  might  contribute,  the 
modest  means  necessary  to  his  resumed  position.  And  as  he 
always  contended  against  your  generous  offers,  no  considera- 


2  04  T^^^E  PARISIANS. 

lion  should  ever  tempt  him  either  to  appropriate  to  his  personal 
use  a  single  sou  intrusted  to  him  for  a  public  purpose,  or  to  ac- 
cept from  friendship  the  pecuniary  aid  which  would  abase  him 
into  the  hireling  of  a  cause.  No  !  Victor  de  Mauieon  de^ 
spises  too  much  the  tools  that  he  employs  to  allow  any  man 
hereafter  to  say,  'Thou  also  wert  a  tool,  and  hast  been  paid  for 
thy  uses.' 

"  But  to  restore  the  victim  of  calumny  to  his  rightful 
place  in  this  gaudy  world,  stripped  of  youth  and  reduced  in 
fortune,  is  a  tp'=k  that  may  well  seem  impossible.  To-morrow 
he  takes  the  hrst  step  towards  the  achievement  of  the  impos- 
sible. Experience  is  no  bad  substitute  for  youth,  and  ambition 
is  made  stronger  by  the  goad  of  poverty. 

"  Thou  shall  hear  of  his  news  soon." 


TNF  PARISIANS. 


30^ 


BOOK    V. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  next  day  at  noon  M.  Louvier  was  closeted  in  his  studj 
with  M.  Gandrin. 

"  Yes,"  cried  Louvier,  "  I  have  behaved  very  handsomely 
to  the  beau  marquis.     No  one  can  say  to  the  contrary." 

"  True,"  answered  Gandrin.     "  Besides  the  easy  terms  tor 
the  transfer  of  the  mortgages,  that  free  bonus  of  one  thousand 
ouis  is  a  generous  and  noble  act  of  munificence." 

"  Is  it  not !  and  my  youngster  has  already  begun  to  do  with 
It  as  I  meant  and  expected.  He  has  taken  a  fine  apartment ; 
he  has  bought  a  coupe  and  horses  ;  he  has  placed  himself  in 
the  hands  of  the  Chevalier  de  Finisterre  ;  he  is  entered  at 
the  Jockey  Club.  Farbleu,  the  thousand  louis  will  be  soon 
gone." 

"  And  then  ?  " 

"  And  then  ? — why,  he  ■will  have  tasted  the  sweets  of 
Parisian  life.  He  will  think  with  disgust  of  the  vietix  vianoir, 
He  can  borrow  no  more.  I  must  remain  sole  mortgagee,  and 
I  shall  behave  as  handsomely  in  buying  his  estates  as  I  have 
behaved  in  increasing  his  income." 

Here  a  clerk  entered,  and  said  "  that  a  monsieur  wished  to 
see  M.  Louvier  for  a  few  minutes  in  private,  on  urgent  busi- 
ness." 

"  Tell  him  to  send  in  his  card," 

"  He  has  declined  to  do  so,  but  states  that  he  has  already 
the  honor  of  your  acquaintance." 

"  A  writer  in  the  press,  perhaps ;  or  is  he  an  artist .-'  " 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  before,  monsieur,  but  he  has  the  aii 
tres  comineil fautP 

"  Well,  you  may  admit  him.  I  will  not  detain  you  longer 
nu'  dear  Gandrin.     My  homages  to  Madame.     Bonjour.^' 


2o6  THE  PARISIANS. 

Louvier  bowed  out  M.  Gandrin,  and  then  rubbed  his  hands 
complacently.  He  was  in  high  spirits.  "  Aha,  my  dear 
Marquis,  thou  art  in  my  trap  now.  Would  it  were  thy  father 
instead  !  "  he  muttered,  chucklingly,  and  then  took  his  stand  on 
his  hearth,  with  his  back  to  the  tireless  grate.  There  entered 
a  gentleman,  exceedingly  well  dressed — dressed  according  to 
the  fashion,  but  still  as  became  one  of  ripe  middle  age,  not 
desiring  to  pass  for  younger  than  he  was. 

He  was  tall,  with  a  kind  of  lofty  ease  in  his  air  and  his 
movements  ;  not  slight  of  frame,  but  spare  enough  to  disguise 
the  strength  and  endurance  which  belonged  to  sinews  and 
thews  of  steel,  freed  from  all  superfluous  flesh,  broad  across 
the  shoulders,  thin  in  the  flanks.  His  dark  hair  had  in  youth 
been  luxuriant  in  thickness  and  curl  ,•  it  was  now  clipped  short, 
and  had  become  bare  at  the  temples,  but  it  still  retained  the 
lustre  of  its  color  and  the  crispness  of  its  ringlets.  He  wore 
neither  beard  nor  moustache,  and  the  darkness  of  his  hair  was 
contrasted  by  a  clear  fairness  of  complexion,  healtliful,  though 
somewhat  pale,  and  eyes  of  that  rare  gray  tint  which  has  in  it 
no  shade  of  blue — peculiar  eyes,  which  give  a  very  distinct 
character  to  the  face.  The  man  must  have  been  singularly 
handsome  in  youth  ;  he  was  handsome  still,  though  probably 
in  his  forty-seventh  or  forty-eighth  year,  doubtless  a  very 
different  kind  of  comeliness.  The  form  of  the  features  and 
tlie  contour  of  the  face  were  those  that  suit  the  rounded  beauty 
of  the  Greek  outline,  and  such  beauty  would  naturally  have 
been  the  attribute  of  the  countenance  in  earlier  days.  But 
the  cheeks  were  now  thin,  and  with  lines  of  care  or  sorrow 
between  nostril  and  lip,  so  th'at  the  shape  of  the  face  seemed 
lengthened,  and  the  features  had  become  more  salient. 

Louvier  gazed  at  his  visitor  with  a  vague  idea  that  he  had 
seen  hun  before,  and  could  not  remember  where  or  when,  but, 
at  all  events,  he  recognized  at  the  first  glance  a  man  of  rank 
and  of  the  great  world. 

"  Pray  be  seated,  Monsieur,"  he  said,  resuming  his  own 
easy-chair. 

The  visitor  obeyed  the  invitation  with  a  very  graceful  bend 
of  his  head,  drew  his  chair  near  to  the  financier's,  stretched 
his  limbs  with  the  ease  of  a  man  making  himself  at  home,  and, 
fixing  his  calm  bright  eyes  quietly  on  Louvier,  said,  with  a 
bland  smile, — 

"  My  dear  old  friend,  do  you  not  remember  me  ?  You  are 
less  altered  than  I  am." 

Louvier  stared  hard  and  long  ;  his  lip  fell,  his  cheek  paled, 


THE  PARISIANS. 


207 


and  at  last  he  faltered  out,  "  del  1  is  it  possible  1     Victor — the 
Vicomte  de  Mauleon  ?  " 

"  At  your  service,  my  dear  Louvier," 

There  was  a  pause ;  the  financier  was  evidently  confused 
and  embarrassed,  and  not  less  evidently  the  visit  of  the  "  dear 
old  friend  "  was  unwelcome. 

"  Vicomte,"  he  said  at  last,  "  this  is  indeed  a  surprise  ;  1 
thought  you  had  long  since  quitted  Paris  for  good." 

"  '■Lhomme propose,^  etc.  I  have  returned,  and  mean  to  en 
joy  the  rest  of  my  days  in  the  metropolis  of  Graces  and  Pleasures. 
What  though  we  are  not  as  young  as  we  were  Louvier, — we 
have  more  vigor  in  us  than  the  new  generation  :  and  though  it 
may  no  longer  befit  us  to  renew  the  gay  carousals  of  old,  life 
has  still  excitements  as  vivid  to  the  social  temperament  and  am- 
bitious mind.  Yes,  the  roi  des  viveurs  returns  to  Paris  for  a 
more  solid  throne  than  he  filled  before." 

"  Are  you  serious  ?  " 

"  As  serious  as  the  French  gayety  will  permit  one  to  be.'"* 

"  Alas  M.  le  Vicomte  !  can  you  flatter  yourself  that  you  will 
regain  the  society  you  have  quitted,  and  the  name  you  have — " 

Louvier  stopped  short ;  something  in  the  Vicomte's  eye 
daunted  him. 

"The  name  I  have  laid  aside  for  convenience  of  travel. 
Princes  travel  incognito,  and  so  may  a  simple  ge.ntilhomme. 
'  Regain  my  place  in  society,'  say  you  ?  Yes ;  it  is  not  that 
which  troubles  me." 

"  What  does  ?  " 

"  The  consideration  whether  on  a  very  modest  income  I  can 
be  sufficiently  esteemed  for  myself  to  render  that  society  more 
pleasant  than  ever.  Ah  mon  cher  !  why  recoil  ."•  why  so  frightened 
Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  ask  you  for  money  ?  Have  I  ever 
done  so  since  we  parted  ?  and  did  I  ever  do  so  before  without 
repaying  you  ?  Bah  !  you  roturiers  are  worse  than  the  Bourbons. 
You  never  learn  or  unlearn.     ^  Fors  non  miitat  genus'  " 

The  magnificent  millionaire,  accustomed  to  the  homage  of 
grandees  from  the  faubourg  and  lions  from  the  Chausse'e 
d'  Antin,  rose  to  his  feet  in  superb  wrath,  less  at  the  taunting 
words  than  at  the  haughtiness  of  mien  with  which  they  were 
uttered. 

"  Monsieur,  I  cannot  permit  you  to  address  me  in  such  a 
tone.     Do  you  mean  to  insult  me  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.  Tranquillize  your  nerves,  reseat  yourself  ; 
and  listen  : — reseat  yourself,  I  say." 

Louvier  dropped  into  his  chair. 


2o8  THE  PARISIANS. 

"  No,"  resumed  the  Vicomte,  politely,  "  I  do  not  come  here 
to  insult  you,  neither  do  1  come  to  ask  money ;  1  assume  that  i 
am  in  my  rights  when  I  ask  M.  Louvier  what  has  become  of 
Louise  Duval  ?  " 

"  Louise  Duval  ?     I  know  nothing  about  her." 

"  Possibly  not  now  ;  but  you  did  know  her  well  enough, 
when  we  two  parted,  to  be  a  candidate  for  her  hand.  You  did 
know  her  well  enough  to  solicit  my  good  offices  in  promotion  of 
your  suit ;  and  you  did,  at  my  advice,  quit  Paris  to  seek  her  at 
Aix-la-Chapelle." 

"  What !  ha\e  you,  M.  de  Mauleon,  not  heard  news  of  her 
since  that  day  .?  " 

"  I  decline  to  accept  your  question  as  an  answer  to  mine. 
You  went  to  Aix-la-Chapelle  ;  you  saw  Louise  Duval ;  at  my  ur- 
gent request  she  condescended  to  accept  your  hand." 

"  No,  M.  de  Mauleon,  she  did  not  accept  my  hand,  I  did 
not  even  see  her.  The  day  before  I  arrived  at  Aix-la-Chapelle 
.she  had  left — not  alone — left  it  with  her  lover." 

"  Her  lover!  You  do  not  mean  that  miserable  Englishman 
who " 

"  No  Englishman,"  interrupted  Louvier  fiercely.  "Enough 
that  the  step  she  took  placed  an  eternal  barrier  between  her 
and  myself.  I  have  never  even  sought  to  hear  of  her  since  that 
day.  Vicomte,  that  woman  was  the  one  love  of  my  life.  I 
loved  her  as  you  must  have  known,  to  folly — to  madness. 
And  how  was  my  love  requited  ?  Ah  !  you  open  a  very  deep 
v/ound,  M.  le  Vicomte." 

"Pardon  me,  Louvier;  I  did  not  give  you  credit  for  feelings 
so  keen  and  so  genuine,  nor  did  I  think  myself  thus  easily  af- 
fected by  matters  belonging  to  a  past  life  so  remote  from  the 
piesent.     For  whom  did  Louise  forsake  you  .''" 

"  It  matters  not — he  is  dead." 

"  I  regret  to  hear  that ;  I  might  have  avenged  you." 

"  I  need  no  one  to  avenge  my  wrong.     Let  this  pass." 

''  Not  y-it.  Louise,  you  say,  fled  with  a  seducer  .''  So  proud 
as  si  e  was,  I  can  scarcely  believe  it." 

"  Oh,  it  was  not  with  a  roturier  she  fled  ;  her  pride  would 
iiot  have  allowed  that." 

"  He  must  have  deceived  her  somehow.  Did  she  continue 
to  live  with  him .-' " 

"  That  question,  at  least,  I  can  answer  ;  for,  though  I  lost 
all  trace  of  her  life,  his  life  was  pretty  well  known  to  me  till  its 
end  ;  and  a  very  few  months  after  she  fled  he  was  chained  to 
another.     Lci  us  talk  of  her  no  more." 


THE  PARISIANS. 


209 


*•  Ay,  ay,"  muttered  De  Mauleon,  "  some  disgraces  are  not 
to  be  redeemed,  and  therefore  not  to  be  discussed.  To  me, 
though  a  relation,  Louise  Duval  was  but  little  known,  and,  aftei 
w  hat  you  tell  me,  I  cannot  dispute  your  right  to  say,  '  talk  ol 
her  no  more.'  You  loved  her  and  she  wronged  you.  My  poor 
Louvier,  pardon  me  if  I  make  an  old  wound  bleed  afresh." 

These  words  were  said  with  a  certain  pathetic  tenderness  ; 
they  softened  Louvier  towards  the  speaker. 

After  a  short  pause  the  Vicomte  swept  his  hand  over  his 
brow,  as  if  to  dismiss  from  his  mind  a  painful  and  obstrusivc 
thought ;  then  with  a  changed  expression  of  countenance — an 
expression  frank  and  winning — wtth  a  voice  and  manner  in 
which  no  vestige  remained  of  the  irony  or  the  haughtiness  with 
which  he  had  resented  the  frigidity  of  his  reception,  he  drew 
his  chair  still  nearer  to  Louvier's,  and  resumed  :  "  Our  situa- 
tions, Paul  Louvier,  are  much  changed  since  we  two 
became  friends.  I  then  could  say,  '  Open  sesame  '  to  whatever 
recesses,  forbidden  to  vulgar  footsteps,  the  adventurer  I  took 
by  the  hand  might  wish  to  explore.  In  those  days  my  heart 
was  warm  ;  I  liked  you,  Louvier — honestly  liked  you.  I  think 
our  personal  acquaintance  commenced  in  some  gay  gathering 
of  young  viveurs,  whose  behavior  to  you  offended  my  sense  of 
good  breeding?" 

Louvier  colored,  and  muttered  inaudibly. 

De  Mauleon  continued  :  "  I  felt  it  due  to  you  to  rebuke  their 
incivilities,  the  more  so  as  you  evinced  on  that  occasion  your 
own  superiority  in  sense  and  temper,  permit  me  to  add,  with 
no  lack  of  becoming  spirit." 

Louvier  bowed  his  head,  evidently  gratified. 
"  From  that  day  we  became  familiar.  If  any  obligation  I0 
me  were  incurred,  you  would  not  have  been  slow  to  return  it. 
On  more  than  one  occasion  when  I  was  rapidly  wasting  money 
— and  money  was  plentiful  with  you — you  generously  offered 
pcxQ  your  purse.  On  more  than  one  occasion  I  accepted  the  of- 
fer;  you  would  never  have  asked  repayment  if  I  had  not  insist- 
ed on  repaying.     I  was  no  less  grateful  for  your  aid." 

Louvier  made  a  movement  as  if  to  extend  his  hand,  but  he 
checked  the  impulse. 

"  There  was  another  attraction  which  drew  me  towards  you. 
I  recognized  in  your  character  a  certain  power  in  sympathy 
with  that  power  which  I  imagined  lay  dormant  in  myself,  and 
not  to  be  found  among  the  frelnqucts  and  lions  who  were  my 
more  habitual  associates.  Do  you  remember  some  hours  of  se- 
rious talk  we  have  had  together  when  we  lounged  in  the  Tuileries 


fc> 


2IO  THE  PARISIANS. 

or  sipped  our  coffee  in  the  garden  of  the  Palais  Royal  ? — hours 
when  we  forgot  tliat  those  were  the  haunts  of  idlers,  and  thought 
of  the  stormy  actions  affecting  the  history  of  the  world 
of  which  they  had  been  the  scene — hours  when  I  confided  to 
you,  as  I  confided  to  no  other  man,  the  ambitious  hopes  foi 
the  future  which  my  follies  in  the  present,  alas  !  were  hourly 
tending  to  frustrate  ?" 

"  Ay,  J.  remember  the  starlit  night ;  it  was  not  in  the 
gardens  of  the  Tuileries  nor  in  the  Palais  Royal, — it  was  on  the 
Pont  de  la  Concorde,  on  which  we  had  paused,  noticing  the 
starlight  on  the  waters,  that  you  said,  pointing  towards  the  walls 
of  the  Corps  Legislatif^  '  Paul  when  I  once  get  into  the  Chamber, 
how  long  will  it  take  me  to  become  First  Minister  of  France  ?'  " 

"  Did  I  say  so  ?  possibly ;  but  I  was  too  young  then  for  ad- 
mission to  the  Chamber,  and  I  fancied  I  had  so  many  years  yet 
to  spare  in  idle  loitermgs  at  the  Fountain  of  Youth.  Pass  over 
these  circumstances.  You  became  in  love  with  Louise.  I  told 
you  her  troubled  history;  it  did  not  diminish  your  love;  and 
then  I  frankly  favored  your  suit.  You  set  out  for  Aix-la-Cha- 
elle  a  dav  or  two  afterwards — then  fell  the  thunderbolt  which 
shattered  my  existence — and  we  have  never  met  again  till  this 
hour.     You  did  not  receive  me  kindly,  Paul  Louvier." 

"  But,"  said  Louvier,  falteringly — "  but,  since  you  refer  to 
that  tliunderbolt,  you  cannot  but  be  aware  that — that " 

"  I  was  subjected  to  a  calumny  which  I  expect  those  who 
have  known  me  as  well  as  you  did  to  assist  me  now  to  refute." 

"  If  it  be  really  a  calumny." 

'*  Heavens,  man  !  could  you  ever  doubt  that  ?  "  cried  De 
Mauleon,  with  heat ;  "  ever  doubt  that  I  would  rather  have 
blown  out  my  brains  than  allowed  them  even  to  conceive  the 
idea  of  a  crime  so  base  ?" 

"  Pardon  me,"  answered  Louvier  meekly,  "but  I  did  not 
return  to  Paris  for  months  after  you  disappeared.  My  mind 
was  unsettled  by  the  news  that  awaited  me  at  Aix  ;  I  sought  to 
distract  it  by  travel — visited  Holland  and  England  ;  and  when  1 
did  return  to  Paris,  all  that  I  heard  of  your  story  was  the  dark- 
er side  of  it.  I  willinglv  listen  to  your  own  account.  You 
never  took,  or  at  least  never  accepted  the  Duchesse  de  — — 's 
jewels,  and  your  friend  M.  de  N.  never  sold  them  to  one  jewel- 
ler and  obtained  their  substitutes  in  paste  from  another .?" 

The  Y'icomte  made  a  perceptible  effort  to  repress  an  im- 
pulse of  rage ;  then  reseating  himself  in  a  chair,  and  with 
that  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulder  by  which  a  Frenchman  im- 
plies   to    himself    that    rage    would    be    out    of   place,    replied 


THE  PARISIANS.  2  1 1 

calmly,  "  M.  de  N  did  as  you  sa}^,  but  of  course,  nol  em 
ployed  by  me,  nor  with  my  knowledge.  Listen  :  the  truth  is 
this — the  time  has  come  to  tell  it.  Before  you  left  Paris  for 
Aix  I  found  mj-self  on  the  brink  of  ruin.  I  had  glided 
towards  it  with  my  characteristic  recklessness — with  that 
scorn  of  money  for  itself,  that  sanguine  confidence  in  the 
favor  of  fortune,  which  are  vices  common  to  every  roi  des 
vivairs.  Poor  mock  Alexanders  that  we  spenthrifts  are  in 
youth  !  we  divide  all  we  have  among  others,  and  when  asked 
by  some  prudent  friend,  '  What  have  you  left  for  your  own 
share  ? '  answer,  '  Hope.'  I  knew,  of  course,  that  my  pat;  i- 
mony  was  rapidly  vanishing  ;  but  then  my  horses  were  match- 
less. I  had  enough  to  last  me  for  years  on  their  chance  of 
winning —  of  course  they  would  win.  But  you  may  recollect 
when  we  parted  that  I  was  troubled, — creditors'  bills  before 
me  ;  usurers'  bills  too, — and  you,  my  dear  Louvier,  pressed 
on  me  your  purse  ;  were  angry  when  I  refused  it.  How 
could  I  accept .''  All  my  chance  of  repayment  was  in  the 
speed  of  a  horse.  I  believed  in  that  chance  for  myself  ;  but 
for  a  trustful  friend,  no.  Ask  your  own  heart  now — nay,  I 
will  not  say  heart — ask  your  own  common  sense,  whether  a 
man  who  then  put  aside  your  purse — spendthrift,  vaiirieii 
though  he  might  be — was  likely  to  steal  or  accept  a  woman's 
jewels,  Va,  ?Hon  paiivre  Louvier  ;  again  I  say,  '  Pots  iion  mutat 
genus. ^  " 

Despite  the  repetition  of  the  displeasing  patrician  motto, 
such  reminiscences  of  his  visitor's  motley  character —  irregu- 
lar, turbulent,  the  reverse  of  severe,  but,  in  its  own  loose  way, 
grandly  generous  and  grandly  brave — struck  both  on  the 
common  sense  and  the  heart  of  the  listener  ;  and  the  French- 
man recognized  the  Frenchman,  Louvier  doubted  De  Mau- 
Mon's  word  no  more,  bowed  his  head,  and  said,  "  Victor  de 
Mauleon,  I  have  wronged  you — go  on." 

■'  On  the  day  after  you  left  for  Aix  came  that  horse-race  on 
jvhich  my  all  depended  :  it  was  lost.  The  loss  absorbed  the 
ivhole  of  my  remaining  fortune  ;  it  absorbed  about  twenty 
thousand  francs  in  excess,,  a  debt  of  honor  to  De  N.,  whom 
you  called  my  friend  :  friend  he  was  not  ;  imitator,  follower, 
fiatterer,  yes.  Still,  I  deemed  him  enough  my  friend  to  say 
to  him,  '  Give  me  a  little  time  to  pay  the  money  ;  I  must  sell 
my  stud,  or  write  to  my  only  living  relation  from  whom  I 
have  expectations.'  You  remember  that  relation — Jacques 
de  Maule'on,  old  and  unmarried.  By  De  N.'s  advice  I  did 
write  to  my  kinsman.     No  answer  came  ;  but  what  did  come 


2  1 2  THE  PARISIANS. 

were  fresh  bills  from  creditors.  I  then  cahnly  calculated  my 
assets.  The  sale  of  my  stud  and  effects  might  suffice  to  pay 
every  sou  that  I  owed,  including  my'  debt  to  De  N.  ;  but  tJiat 
was  not  quite  certain — at  all  events,  when  the  debts  were  paid 
I  should  be  beggared.  Well,  you  know,  Louvier,  what  we 
Frenchman  are  :  how  Nature  has  denied  to  us  the  quality  of 
patience  ;  how  involuntarily  suicide  presents  itself  to  us  when 
hope  is  lost — and  suicide  seemed  to  me  here  due  to  honor — 
viz.,  to  the  certain  discharge  of  my  liabilities — for  the  stud 
and  effects  of  Victor  de  Maule'on  roi  des  viveurs,  would  com- 
mand much  higher  prices  if  he  died  like  Cato  than  if  he  ran 
away  from  his  fate  like  Pompey.  Doubtless  De  N.  guessed 
my  intention  from  my  words  or  my  manner ;  but  on  the  veiy 
day  in  which  I  had  made  all  preparations  for  quitting  the 
world  from  which  sunshine  had  vanished,  I  received  in  a 
blank  envelope  bank  notes  amounting  to  seventy  thousand 
francs,  and  the  post-mark  on  the  envelope  was  that  of  the 
town  of  Fontainebleau,  near  to  which  lived  my  rich  kinsman 
Jacques.  I  took  it  for  granted  that  the  sum  came  from  him. 
Displeased  as  he  might  have  been  with  my  wild  career,  still  I 
was  his  natural  heir.  The  sum  sufficed  to  pay  my  debt  to  De 
N.,  to  all  creditors,  and  leave  a  surplus.  My  sanguine  spirits 
returned.  I  would  sell  my  stud  ;  I  would  retrench,  reform,  go 
to  my  kinsman  as  the  penitent  son.  The  fatted  calf  would  be 
killed,  and  I  should  wear  purple  yet.  You  understand  that, 
Louvier  .'' " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  so  like  you.     Go  on." 

"  Now  then,  came  the  thunderbolt !  Ah  !  in  those  sunn}, 
days  you  used  to  envy  me  for  being  so  spoilt  by  women.     The 

Duchesse  de had  conceived  for  me  one  of  those  romantic 

fancies  which  women  without  children,  and  with  ample  leisure 
for  the  waste  of  affection,  do  sometimes  conceive  for  very 
ordinary  men  younger  than  themselves,  but  in  whom  they 
imagine  they  discover  sinners  to  reform  or  heroes  to  exalt.  I 
had  been  honored  by  some  notes  from  the  Duchesse  in  which 
this  sort  of  romance  was  owned.  I  had  not  replied  to  them 
encouragingly.  In  truth,  my  heart  was  then  devoted  to  another, 
— the  English  girl  whom  I  had  wooed  as  my  wife, — who,  despite 
her  parents'  retractation  of  their  consent  to  our  union  when  they 
learned  how  dilapidated  were  my  fortunes,  pledged  herself  to 
remain  faithful  to  me  and  wait  for  better  days."  Again  De 
Maul^on  paused  in  suppressed  emotion,  and  then  went  on  hur- 
riedly  :  "  No,  the  Duchesse  did  not  inspire  me  with  guilty  pas- 
sion, but  she  did  inspire  me  with  an  affectionate   respect.     I 


THE  PARISIANS. 


213 


felt  that  she  was  by  nature  meant  to  be  a  great  and  noble  crea- 
ture, and  was,  nevertheless,  at  that  moment  wholly  misled  from 
her  right  place  among  women  by  an  illusion  of  mere  imagination 
about  a  man  who  happened  then  to  be  very  much  talked  about 
and  perhaps  resembled  some  Lothario  in  the  novels  which  she 
was  always  reading.  We  lodged,  as  you  may  remember,  in  the 
same  house." 

"  Yes,  I  remember.  I  remember  how  you  once  took  me  to 
a  great  ball  given  by  the  Duchesse  ;  how  handsome  I  thought 
h(ir,  though  no  longer  young ;  and  you  say  right — how  I  did 
envy  you  that  night  !  " 

"  From  that  night,  however,  the  Due,  not  unnaturally  be- 
came jealous.  He  reproved  the  Duchesse  for  her  too  amiable 
manner  towards  a  mauvais  siijet  like  myself,  and  forbade  her  in 
future  to  receive  my  visits.  It  was  then  that  these  notes  be- 
came frequent  and  clandestine,  brought  to  me  by  her  maid, 
who  took  back  my  somewhat  chilling  replies. 

"  But  to  proceed.  In  the  flush  of  my  high  spirits,  and  in 
the  insolence  of  magnificent  ease  with  which  I  paid  De  N. 
the  trifle  I  owed  him,  something  he  said  made  my  heart  stand 
still.  I  told  him  that  the  money  received  had  come  from 
Jacques  de  Mauleon,  and  that  I  was  going  down  to  his  house 
that  day  to  thank  him.  He  replied,  'Don't  go;  it  did  not 
come  from  him.'  '  It  must ;  see  the  post-mark  of  the  envel- 
ope— Fontainebleau.'  '  I  posted  it  at  Fontainebleau.'  '  You 
sent  nie  the  money,  you  ! '  '  Nay,  that  is  beyond  my  means. 
Where  it  came  from,'  said  this  miserable,  '  much  more  may 
yet  come  ; '  and  then  he  narrated,  with  that  cynicism  so  in 
vogue  at  Paris,  how  he  had  told  the  Duchesse  (who  knew  him 
as  my  intimate  associate)  of  my  stress  of  circumstance,  of  his 
fear  that  I  meditated  something  desperate  ;  how  she  gave  him 
the  jewels  to  sell  and  to  substitute  ;  how,  in  order  to  bafiie  my 
suspicion  and  frustrate  my  scruples,  he  had  gone  to  Fontaine- 
bleau and  there  posted  the  envelope  containing  the  bank  notes, 
out  of  which  he  secured  for  himself  the  payment  he  deemed 
otherwise  imperilled.  De  N.,  having  made  this  confession,  hur- 
ried down  the  stairs  swiftly  enough  to  save  himself  a  descent 
by  the  window.     Do  you  believe  me  still  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  you  were  always  so  hot-blooded,  and  De  N  ,  so  con- 
siderate of  self,  I  believe  you  implicitly." 

"  Of  course  I  did  what  any  man  would  do — I  wrote  a  hasty 
letter  to  the  Duchesse,  stating  all  my  gratitude  for  an  act  of 
pure  friendship  so  noble  ;  urging  also  the  reasons  that  rendered 
it  impossible  for  a  man  of  honor  to  profit  by  such  an  act.     Un- 


214  "^^^  PARISIANS. 

happily,  what  had  been  sent  had  been  paid  away  ere  I  knew  the 
facts  ;'bLit  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  life  till  my  debt  to  her 
was  acquitted ;  in  short,  Louvier,  conceive  for  yourself  the  sort  of 
letter  which  I — which  any  honest  man — would  write,  under  cir- 
cumstances so  cruel." 

"  H'm  !  "  grunted  Louvier. 

"  Something,  however,  in  my  letter,  conjoined  with  what  De 
N.  had  told  her  as  to  my  state  of  mind,  alarmed  this  poor 
woman,  who  had  deigned  to  take  in  me  an  interest  so  little 
deserved.  Her  reply,  very  agitated  and  incoherent,  was  brought 
to  me  by  her  maid,  who  had  taken  my  letter,  and  by  whom,  as 
I  before  said,  our  correspondence  had  been  of  late  carried  on. 
In  her  reply  she  implored  me  to  reflect,  to  decide  on  nothing  till 
I  had  seen  her  ;  stated  how  the  rest  of  her  day  was  pre-engaged 
and  since  to  visit  her  openly  had  been  made  impossible  by  the 
Due's  interdict,  inclosed  the  key  to  the  private  entrance  to  her 
rooms,  by  which  I  could  gain  an  interview  with  her  at  ten  o' 
clock  that  night,  an  hour  at  which  the  Due  had  informed  her  he 
should  be  out  late  at  his  club.  Now,  however  great  the  indiscretion 
which  the  Duchesse  here  committed,  it  is  due  to  her  memory  to 
say  that  I  am  convinced  that  her  dominant  idea  was  that  I  med- 
itated self-destruction,  that  no  time  was  to  be  lost  to  save  me 
from  it,  and  for  the  rest  she  trusted  to  the  influence  which  a 
woman's  tears  and  adjurations  and  reasonings  have  over  even 
the  strongest  and  hardest  men.  It  is  only  one  of  those  cox- 
combs in  whom  the  world  of  fashion  abounds  who  could  have 
admitted  a  thought  that  would  have  done  wrong  to  the  impulsive, 
generous,  imprudent  eagerness  of  a  woman  to  be  in  time  to  save 
from  death  by  his  own  hand  a  fellow-being  for  whom  she  had 
conceived  an  interest.  I  so  construed  her  note.  At  the  hour 
she  named  I  admitted  myself  into  the  rooms  by  the  key  she 
sent.  You  know  the  rest :  I  was  discovered  by  the  Due  and  jjy 
the  agents  of  police  in  the  cabinet  in  which  the  Duchesse's 
jewels  were  kept.  The  key  that  admitted  me  into  the  cabinet 
was  found  in  my  possession." 

De  Maul^on's  voice  here  faltered,  and  he  covered  his  face 
witli  a  comnilsive  hand,  Almost  in  the  same  breath  he  recov- 
ered from  visible  sign  of  emotion,  and  went  on  with  a  half- 
laugh. 

"  Ah  !  you  envied  me,  did  you,  for  being  spoiled  by  the 
women  ?  Enviable  position  indeed  was  mine  that  night.  The 
Due  obeyed  the  first  impulse  of  his  wrath.  He  imagined  that 
I  had  dishonored  him  :  he  would  dishonor  me  in  return.  Easier 
to   his  pride,  too,  a  charge  against  the  robber  of  jewels   than 


THE  PARISIANS.  215 

agamst  a  favored  lover  of  his  wife.  But  when  I,  obeying  the 
first  necessary  obUgation  of  honor,  invented  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment  the  story  by  which  the  Duchesse's  reputation  was 
cleared  from  suspicion,  accused  myself  of  a  frantic  passion  and 
the  trickery  of  a  fabricated  key,  the  Due's  true  nature  of  gentil- 
homme  came  back.  He  retracted  the  charge  which  he  could 
scarcely  even  at  the  first  blush  have  felt  to  be  well  founded  ; 
and  as  the  sole  charge  left  was  simply  that  which  men  comme  ii 
faiit  do  not  refer  to  criminal  courts  and  police  investigations,  I 
was  left  to  make  my  bow  unmolested  and  retreat  to  my  own 
rooms,  awaiting  there  such  communications  as  the  Due  might 
deem  it  right' to  convey  to  me  on  the  morrow. 

"  But  on  the  morrow  the  Due,  with  his  wife  and  personal 
suite,  quitted  Paris  e?t  route  for  Spain  ;  the  bulk  of  his  retinue, 
including  the  offending  abigail,  was  discharged  ;  and,  whether 
through  these  servants  or  through  the  police,  the  story  before 
evening  was  in  the  mouth  of  every  gossip  in  club  or  cafe — exag- 
gerated, distorted,  to  my  ignominy  and  shame.  My  detection 
in  the  cabinet,  the  sale  of  the  jewels,  the  substitution  of  paste 
by  D.  N.,  who  was  known  to  be  my  servile  imitator  and  reputed 
to  be  my  abject  tool, — all  my  losses  on  the  turf,  my  debts, — all 
these  scattered  fibres  of  flax  were  twisted  together  in  a  rope 
that  would  have  hanged  a  dog  with  a  much  better  name  than 
mine.  If  some  disbelieved  that  I  could  be  a  thief,  few  of  those 
who  should  have  known  me  best  held  me  guiltless  of  a  baseness 
almost  equal  to  that  of  theft — the  exaction  of  profit  from  the 
love  of  a  foolish  woman." 

"  But  you  could  have  told  your  own  tale,  shown  the  letters 
you  had  received  from  the  Duchess,  and  cleared  away  every 
stain  of  your  honor," 

"  How  ? — shown  her  letters,  ruined  her  character,  even 
stated  that  she  had  caused  her  jewels  to  be  sold  for  the  uses 
of  a  young  roue  !  Ah,  no,  Louvier.  I  would  rather  have  gone 
to  the  galleys  !  " 

"  H'm  !  " — grunted  Louvier  again. 

"  The  Due  generously  gave  me  better  means  of  righting 
mjself.  Three  days  after  he  quitted  Paris  I  received  a  letter 
from  him,  very  politely  written,  expressing  his  great  regret 
that  any  words  implying  the  suspicion  too  monstrous  and  ab- 
surd to  need  refutation  should  have  escaped  him  in  the  surprise 
of  the  moment ;  but  stating  that,  since  the  offence  I  had  owned 
was  one  that  he  could  not  overlook,  he  was  under  the  neces- 
sity of  asking  the  only  reparation  I  could  make.  That  if  it 
deranged  '  me   to  quit   Paris,  he  would  return  to  it  for  the 


2i6  THE  PARISIANS. 

purpose  required  ;  but  that  if  I  would  give  him  the  additional 
satisfaction  of  suiting  his  convenience,  he  should  prefer  to 
await  my  arrival  at  Bayonne,  where  he  was  detained  by  the 
indisposition  of  the  Duchesse." 

"  You  have  still  that  letter  ?  "  asked  Louvier,  quickly. 

"  Yes  ;  with  other  more  important  documents  constituting 
what  I  may  call  my  pieces  justijicatives. 

"  I  need  not  say  that  I  replied,  stating  the  time  at  which  1 
should  arrive  at  Bayonne,  and  the  hotel  at  which  I  should 
await  the  Due's  command.  Accordingly,  I  set  out  that  same 
day,  gained  the  hotel  named,  despatched  to  the  Due  the  an- 
nouncement of  my  arrival,  and  was  considering  how  I  should 
obtain  a  second  in  some  officer  quartered  m  the  town — for  my 
soreness  and  resentment  at"  the  marked  coldness  of  ray  former 
acquaintances  at  Paris  had  forbidden  me  to  seek  a  second 
among  any  of  that  faithless  number — when  the  Due  himself 
entered  my  room.  Judge  of  my  amaze  at  seeing  him  in 
person  ;  judge  how  much  greater  the  amaze  became  when  he 
advanced  with  a  grave  but  cordial  smile,  offering  me  his 
hand ! 

"  '  M.  de  Mauleon,*  said  he,  '  since  I  wrote  to  you,  facts 
have  become  known  to  me  which  would  induce  me  rather  to  ask 
your  friendship  than  call  on  you  to  defend  your  life.  Madame 
la  Duchesse  lias  been  seriously  ill  since  we  left  Paris,  and  I 
refrained  from  all  explanations  likely  to  add  to  the  hysterical 
excitement  under  which  she  was  suffering.  It  is  only  this  day 
that  her  mind  became  collected,  and  she  herself  then  gave  me 
her  entire  confidence.  Monsieur,  she  insisted  on  my  reading 
the  letters  that  you  addressed  to  her.  Those  letters.  Monsieur, 
suffice  to  prove  your  innocence  of  any  design  against  my  peace. 
The  Duchesse  has  so  candidly  avowed  her  own  indiscretion, 
has  so  clearly  established  the  distinction  between  indiscretion 
and  guilt,  that  I  have  granted  her  my  pardon  with  a  lightened 
heirt  and  a  firm  belief  that  we  shall  be  happier  together  than 
we  have  been  yet.' 

"  The  Due  continued  his  journey  the  next  day,  but  he  sub- 
sequently honored  me  with  two  or  three  letters  written  as  friend 
to  friend,  and  in  which  you  will  find  repeated  the  substance  of 
what  I  have  stated  him  to  say  by  word  of  mouth." 

"  But  why  not  then  have  returned  to  Paris  ?  Such  letters, 
at  least,  you  might  have  shown,  and  in  braving  your  calum- 
niators you  would  have  soon  lived  them  down." 

"  You  forget  that  I  was  a  ruined  man.  When,  by  the  sale 
of  my  horses,  etc.,  my  debts,   including  what  was  owed  to   the 


THE  PARfSIAJVS.  217 

Duchesse,  and  which  I  remitted  to  the  Due,  were  discharged, 
the  balance  left  to  me  would  not  have  maintained  me  a  week 
at  Paris.  Besides,  I  felt  so  sore,  so  indignant.  Paris  and  the 
Parisians  had  become  to  me  so  hateful.  And,  to  crown  all,  that 
girl  that  English  girl  whom  I  had  so  loved,  on  whose  fidelity  I 
had  so  counted — well,  I  received  a  letter  from  her,  gently  but 
coldly  bidding  me  farewell  forever.  I  do  not  think  she  believed 
me  guilty  of  theft,  but  doubtless  the  offence  I  had  confessed,  in 
order  to  save  the  honor  of  the  Duchesse,  could  but  seem  to  her 
all-sufficient !  Broken  in  spirit,  bleeding  at  heart  to  the  very 
core,  siill  self-destruction  was  no  longer  to  be  thought  of.  I 
would  not  die  till  I  could  once  more  lift  up  my  head  as  Victor 
de  MauJe'on." 

"  What  then  became  of  you,  my  poor  Victor  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  that  is  a  tale  too  long  for  recital.  I  have  played  so 
many  parts  that  I  am  puzzled  to  recognize  my  own  identity  with 
the  Victor  de  Maule'on  whose  name  I  abandoned.  I  have  been 
a  soldier  in  Algeria,  and  won  my  cross  on  the  field  of  battle — 
that  cross  and  my  colonel's  letter  are  among  my  pieces  justifi- 
catives.  I  have  been  a  gold-digger  in  California,  a  speculator 
in  New- York,  of  late  in  callings  obscure  and  humble.  But  in 
all  my  adventures,  under  whatever  name,  I  have  earned  testimo- 
nials of  probity,  could  manifestations  of  so  vulgar  a  virtue  be 
held  of  account  by  the  enlightened  people  of  Paris.  I  come 
now  to  a  close.  The  Vicomte  de  Mauleon  is  about  to  reappear 
in  Paris,  and  the  first  to  whom  he  announces  that  sublime  avatar 
is  Paul  Louvier.  When  settled  in  some  modest  apartment,  I 
shall  place  in  your  hands  my  pieces  jiistificatives.  I  shall  ask 
you  to  summon  my  surviving  relations  or  connections,  among 
whom  are  the  Counts  de  Vandemar,  Beauvilliers,  De  Passy, 
and  the  Marquis  de  Rochebnant,  with  any  friends  of  your  own 
who  sway  the  opinions  of  tlie  Great  World.  You  will  place  my 
justification  before  them,  expressing  your  own  opinion  that  it 
suffices;— -in  a  word,  you  will  give  me  the  sanction  of  your 
countenance.  For  the  rest,  I  trust  to  myself  to  propitiate  the 
kindly  and  to  silence  the  calumnious,  I  have  spoken  :  what 
say  you  ? " 

"  You  overrate  my  power  in  society.  Why  not  appeal  your- 
self tj  your  high-born  relations  ?  " 

"  No,  Louvier  ;  I  have  too  well  considered  the  case  to  alter 
ray  decision.  It  is  through  you,  and  you  alone,  that  I  shdl 
approach  my  relations.  My  vindicator  must  be  a  man  of 
whom  the  vulgar  cannot  say,  '  Oh,  he  is  a  relation — a  fellow- 
noble  :  those  aristocrats  whitewash  each  other.'     It   must  be 


2i8  THE  PARISIANS. 

an  authority  w.th  the  public  at  large — a  bourgeois,  a  niillion- 
naire,  a  roi  de  la  Bourse.  1  choose  you,  and  that  ends  the 
discussion." 

Louvier  could  not  help  laughing  good-humoredly  at  the 
sang-froid  of  the  Vicomte.  He  was  once  more  under  the 
domination  of  a  man  who  had  for  a  time  dominated  all  with 
whom  he  lived. 

De  Mauleon  continued  :  "  Your  task  will  be  easy  enough. 
Society  changes  rapidly  at  Paris.  Few  persons  now  exist  who 
have  more  than  a  vague  recollection  of  the  circumstances  which 
can  be  so  easily  explained  to  my  complete  vindication  when 
the  vindication  comes  from  a  man  of  )-our  solid  respectability 
and  social  influence.  Besides,  I  have  political  objects  in  view. 
You  are  a  liberal ;  the  Vandemars  and  Rochebriants  are 
Legitimists.  I  prefer  a  godfather  on  the  Liberal  side.  Pardieu, 
mon  ami,  why  such  coquettish  hesitation .?  Said  and  done.  Your 
hand  on  it." 

"  There  is  my  hand,  then.     I  will  do  all  I  can  to  help  you." 

"  I  know  you  will,  old  friend  ;  and  you  do  both  kindly  and 
wisely."  Here  De  Mauleon  cordially  pressed  the  hand  he  held, 
and  departed. 

On  gaining  the  street,  the  Vicomte  glided  into  a  neighboring 
courtyard,  in  which  he  had  left  his  fiacre,  and  bade  the  coach- 
man drive  towards  the  Boulevard  Sebastopol.  On  the  way  he 
took  from  a  small  bag  that  he  had  left  in  the  carriage  the  flaxen 
wig  and  pale  whiskers  which  distinguished  M.  Lebeau,  and 
mantled  his  elegant  habiliments  in  an  immense  cloak  which  he 
had  also  left  in  \\\^  fiacre.  Arrived  at  the  Boulevard  Sebastopol, 
he  drew  up  the  collar  of  the  cloak  so  as  to  conceal  much  of  his 
face,  stopped  the  driver,  paid  him  quickly,  and,  bag  in  hand, 
hurried  on  to  another  stand  oi  fiacres  Vi\.  a  little  distance,  entered 
one,  drove  to  the  Faubourg  Montmartre,  dismissed  the  vehicle 
at  the  mouth  of  a  street  not  far  from  Mr.  Lebeau's  office,  and 
gained  on  foot  the  private  side  door  of  the  house,  let  himself 
in  with  his  latch-key,  entered  the  private  room  on  the  inner  side 
of  his  office,  locked  the  door,  and  proceeded  leisurely  to  ex- 
change the  brilliant  appearance  which  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon 
had  borne  on  his  visit  to  the  millionaire,  for  the  sober  raiment 
and  houtgeois  air  of  M.  Lebeau  the  letter-writer. 

Then,  after  locking  up  his  former  costume  in  a  drawer  ot 
his  secretaire,  he  sat  himself  down  and  wrote  the  following  lines  : 

"  Dear  M.  Georges, — I  advise  you  strongly,  from  informa- 
tion that  has  just  reached  me,  to  lose  no  time  in  pressing  M. 


THE  PARISIANS.  219 

Savarin  to  repay  the  sum  I  recommended  you  to  lend  him,  and 
for  which  you  hold  his  bill  due  this  day.  The  scandal  of  legal 
measures  against  a  writer  so  distinguished  should  be  avoided 
if  possible.  He  will  avoid  it  and  get  the  money  somehow. 
But  he  must  be  urgently  pressed.  If  you  neglect  this  warning 
my  responsibility  is  past. — Agreez  mes  sentime?is  les plus  situe  res. 

J.  L. 


CHAPTER   II. 

The  Marquis  de  Rochebriant  is  no  longer  domiciled  in  an 
attic  in  the  gloomy  faubourg.  See  him  now  in  a  charming  appart- 
ment  de  garcon  an  premier  in  the  Rue  du  Helder,  close  by  the 
promenades  and  haunts  of  viode.  It  had  been  furnished  and  in- 
habited by  a  brilliant  young  provincial  from  Bordeaux,  who, 
coming  into  an  inheritance  of  a  hundred  thousand  francs,  had 
rushed  up  to  Paris  to  enjoy  himself  and  make  his  million  at 
the  Bourse.  He  had  enjoyed  himself  thoroughly.  He  had 
been  a  darling  of  the  demi-77i07ide.  He  had  been  a  successful 
and  an  inconstant  gallant.  Zelie  had  listened  to  his  vows  of 
eternal  love  and  his  offers  of  unlimited  cachemires.  Desiree, 
succeeding  Zelie,  had  assigned  to  him  her  whole  heart,  or 
all  that  was  left  of  it,  in  gratitude  for  the  ardor  of  his  passion, 
and  the  diamonds  and  coupe  which  accompanied  and  attested 
the  ardor.  The  superb  Hortense,  supplanting  De'siree,  received 
his  visits  in  the  charming  apartment  he  furnished  for  her,  and 
entertained  him  and  his  friends  at  the  most  delicate  little 
suppers,  for  the  moderate  sum  of  four  thousand  francs  a  month. 
Yes,  he  had  enjoyed  himself  thoroughly,  but  he  had  not  made 
a  million  at  the  Bourse.  Before  the  year  was  out,  the  hundred 
thousand  francs  were  gone.  Compelled  to  return  to  his 
province,  and  by  his  hard-hearted  relations  ordained,  on 
penalty  of  starvation,  to  marry  the  daughter  of  an  avoue  for 
the  sake  of  her  dot  and  a  share  in  the  hated  drudgery  of  the 
avouifs  business,  his  apartment  was  to  be  had  for  a  tenth  pait  of 
the  original  cost  of  its  furniture.  A  certain  Chevalier  de  Finisterre, 
to  whom  Louvier  had  introduced  the  Marquis  as  a  useful 
fellow,  who  knew  Paris  and  would  save  him  from  being  cheated, 
had  secured  this  bijou  of  an  apartment  for  Alain  and  concluded 
the  bargain  for  the  bagatelle  of  ^^500.  The  Chevalier  took 
the  same  advantageous  occasion  to  purchase  the  English  weU 


220  THE  PARISIANS. 

bred  hack  and  the  neat  coupe  and  horses  which  the  Bcrdelais 
was  also  necessitated  to  dispose  of.  These  purchases  made, 
the  Marquis  had  some  five  thousand  francs(  £206)  left  out  of 
Louvier's  premium  of  ^1000.  The  Marquis,  however,  did  not 
seem  alarmed  or  dejected  by  the  sudden  diminution  of  capital 
so  expeditiously  effected.  The  easy  life  thus  commenced 
seemed  to  him  too  natural  to  be  fraught  with  danger ;  and, 
easy  though  it  was,  it  was  a  very  simple  and  modest  sort  of  life 
compared  with  that  of  many  other  men  of  his  age  to  whom 
Enguerrand  had  introduced  him,  though  most  of  them  had  an 
income  less  than  his,  and  few,  indeed,  of  them  were  his  equals 
in  dignity  of  birth.  Could  a  Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  if  he 
lived  at  Paris  at  all,  give  less  than  three  thousand  francs  a 
year  for  his  apartment,  or  mount  a  more  humble  establishment 
than  that  confined  to  a  valet  and  a  tiger,  two  horses  for  his 
coupe  and  one  for  the  saddle  ?  "  Impossible,"  said  the 
Chevalier  de  Finisterre,  decidedly ;  and  the  Marquis  bowed  to 
so  high  an  authority.  He  thought  within  himself,  "  If  I  find 
in  a  few  months  that  I  am  exceeding  my  means,  I  can  but 
dispose  of  my  rooms  and  my  horses,  and  return  to  Rochebriant 
a  richer  man  by  far  than  I  left  it." 

To  say  truth,  the  brilliant  seductions  of  Paris  had  already 
produced  their  effect,  not  only  on  the  habits,  but  on  the  char- 
acter and  cast  of  thought,  which  the  young  noble  had  brought 
with  him  from  the  feudal  and  melancholy  Bretagne. 

Warmed  by  the  kindness  with  which,  once  introduced  by  his 
popular  kinsman,  he  was  everywhere  received,  the  reserve  or 
shyness  which  is  the  compromise  between  the  haughtiness  of 
self-esteem  and  the  painful  doubt  of  appreciation  by  others 
rapidly  melted  away.  He  caught  insensibly  the  polished  tone, 
at  once  so  light  and  so  cordial,  of  his  new-made  friends.  With 
all  the  efforts  of  the  democrats  to  establish  equality  and  frater- 
nity, it  is  among  the  aristocrats  that  equality  and  fraternity 
are  most  to  be  found.  All  gentilshomrnes  in  the  best  society 
are  equals  ;  and,  whether  they  embrace  or  fight  each  other, 
they  embrace  or  fight  as  brothers  of  the  same  family.  But 
with  the  tone  of  manners  Alain  de  Rochebriant  imbibed  still 
more  insensibly  the  lore  of  that  philosophy  which  young  idlers 
in  pursuit  of  pleasure  teach  to  each  other.  Probably  in  all 
civilized  and  luxurious  capitals  that  philosophy  is  very  much 
the  same  among  the  same  class  of  idlers  at  the  same  age  ; 
probably  it  flourishes  in  Pekin  not  less  than  in  Paris.  If  Paris 
has  the  credit,  or  discredit,  of  it  more  than  any  other  capital, 
it  is  because  in  Paris  moni  th  m  in  any  other  capital  it  charms 


THE  PA  KISIAiVS.  2  ^  i 

the  eye  by  grace  and  amuses  the  ear  by  wit.  A  philosophy 
which  takes  the  things  of  this  life  very  easily — which  has  a 
smile  and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  for  any  pretender  to  the 
Heroic — which  subdivides  the  wealth  of  passion  into  the 
pocket-money  of  caprices — is  always  in  or  out  of  love  ankle- 
deep,  never  venturing  a  plunge — which,  light  of  heart  as  of 
tongue,  turns  "  the  solemn  plausibilities  "  of  earth  into  sub- 
jects for  epigrams  and  tons  f?iots, — it  jests  at  loyalty  to  kings 
and  turns  up  its  nose  at  enthusiasm  for  commonwealths-^it 
aojures  all  grave  studies — it  shuns  all  profound  emotions. 
We  have  crowds  of  such  philosophers  in  London  ;  but  there 
they  are  less  noticed,  because  the  agreeable  attributes  of  the 
sect  thwe  are  dimmed  and  obfuscated.  It  is  not  a  philosophy 
that  flowers  richly  in  the  reek  of  fogs  and  in  the  teeth  of  east 
winds  ;  it  wants  for  full  development  the  light  atmosphere  of 
Paris.  Now,  this  philosophy  began  rapidly  to  exercise  its 
charms  upon  Alain  de  Rochebriant.  Even  in  the  society  of 
professed  Legitimists  he  felt  that  faith  had  deserted  the  Legiti- 
mist creed,  or  taken  refuge  only,  as  a  companion  of  religion 
in  the  hearts  of  high-born  women  and  a  small  minority  of 
priests.  His  chivalrous  loyalty  still  struggled  to  keep  its 
ground,  but  its  roots  were  very  much  loosened.  He  saw — for 
his  natural  intellect  was  keen — that  the  cause  of  the  Bourbon 
was  hopeless,  at  least  for  the  present,  because  it  had  ceased, 
at  least  for  the  present,  to  be  a  cause.  His  political  creed  thus 
shaken,  with  it  was  shaken  also  that  adherence  to  the  past 
which  had  stifled  his  ambition  of  a  future.  That  ambition 
began  to  breathe  and  to  stir,  though  he  awned  it  not  to  others — 
though  as  yet  he  scarce  distinguished  its  whispers,  much  less 
directed  its  movements  towards  any  definite  object.  Mean- 
while, all  that  he  knew  of  his  ambition  was  the  newborn  desire 
for  social  success. 

We  see  him,  then,  under  the  quick  operation  of  this  change 
in  sentiments  and  habits,  reclined  on  the  fauteuil  before  his 
fireside,  and  listening  to  his  college  friend,  of  whom  we  have 
so  long  lost  sight,  Frederic  Lemercier.  Frederic  had  break 
fasted  with  Alain — a  breakfast  such  as  might  have  contented 
the  author  of  the  Almanack  des  Gourmands,  and  provided 
from  the  Cafe  Anglais.  Frederic  has  just  thrown  aside  his 
regalia. 

'''' Pardieu !  my  clear  Alain,  if   Louvier  has   no   sinister  ob 
ject  in  the  generosity  of  his  dealings  with  you,  he  will  have 
raised  himself  prodigiously  in  my  estimation.      I  shall  forsake 
in  his  favor,   my  allegiance   to   Duplessis,   though  that  clever 


222  THE  PAR/SIAAT^. 

fellow  has  just  made  a  wondrous  coup  in  the  Eg}'ptians  and 
1  gained  forty  thousand  francs  by  having  followed  his  advice. 
But  if  Duplessis  has  a  head  as  long  as  Louvier's,  he  certainly 
has  not  an  equal  greatness  of  soul.  Still,  my  dear  friend,  will 
you  pardon  me  if  I  speak  frankly  and  in  the  way  of  a  warning 
homily  ?  " 

"  Speak  :  you  cannot  oblige  me  more." 

"  Well,  then,  I  know  that  you  can  no  more  live  at  Paris  m 
the  way  you  are  doing,  or  mean  to  do,  without  some  fresh  ad- 
dition to  your  income,  than  a  lion  could  live  in  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes  upon  an  allowance  of  two  mice  a  week." 

"  I  don't  see  that.  Deducting  what  I  pay  to  my  aunt — 
and  I  cannot  get  her  to  take  more  than  six  thousand  francs  a 
year — I  have  seven  hundred  napoleons  left,  net  and  clear. 
My  rooms  and  stables  are  equipped,  and  I  have  twenty-five 
hundred  francs  in  hand.  On  seven  hundred  napoleons  a  year 
I  calculate  that  I  can  very  easily  live  as  I  do  ;  and  if  I  fail — 
well,  I  must  return  to  Rochebriant.  Seven  hundred  napoleons 
a  year  will  be  a  magnificent  rental  there." 

Frederic  shook  his  head. 

"  You  do  not  know  how  one  expense  leads  to  another. 
Above  all,  you  do  not  calculate  the  chief  part  of  one's  expen- 
diture— the  unforeseen.  You  will  play  at  the  Jockey  Club  and 
lose  half  your  income  in  a  night." 

"  I  shall  never  touch  a  card." 

"  So  you  say  now,  innocent  as  a  lamb  of  the  force  of  ex- 
ample. At  all  events,  beau  seigneur,  I  presume  you  arc  not 
going  to  resuscitate  the  part  of  the  Rrmite  de  la  Chaussee  d'An- 
tin  ;  and  the  fair  Parisiemies  are  demons  of  extravagance." 

"  Demons  whom  I  shall  not  court." 

"  Did  I  say  you  would  .-'  They  will  court  you.     Before  an 
other  month  has  flown,  you  will  be  inundated  with  billets-doux  I!'' 

"  It  is  not  a  shower  that  will  devastate  my  humble  harvest. 
But,  man  cher,  we  are  falling  upon  very  gloomy  tof.ics.  Lais- 
sez-moi  tranquille  in  my  illusions,  if  illusions  they  be.  Ah,  you 
cannot  conceive  what  a  new  life  opens  to  the  man  who,  like  my 
self,  has  passed  the  dawn  of  his  youth  in  privation  and  fear, 
when  he  suddenly  acquires  competence  and  hope.  If  it  last 
only  a  year,  it  will  be  something  to  say,  '  Vixi.*  " 

"  Alain,"  said  Frederic,  very  earnestly,  "  believe  me,  I 
should  not  have  assumed  the  ungracious  and  inappropriate 
task  of  Mentor  if  it  were  only  a  year's  experience  at  stake,  or 
if  you  were  in  the  position  of  men  like  myself — free  from  (he 
incumbrance   of  a  great   name   and   heavily  mortgaged  lands. 


THE  P ARISTA. VS.  223 

Should  you  fail  to  pay  regularly  the  interest  due  to  Louvier, 
he  has  the  power  to  put  up  at  public  auction,  and  there  to  buy 
in  for  himself,  your  chateau  and  domain." 

"  I  am  aware  that  in  strict  law  he  would  have  such  power  ; 
dough  I  doubt  if  he  would  use  it.  Louvier  is  certainly  a  much 
better  and  more  generous  fellow  than  I  could  have  expected  ; 
and,  if  I  believe  De  F'inisterre,  he  has  taken  a  sincere  liking  to 
me,  on  account  of  affection  to  my  poor  father.  But  why  should 
not  the  interest  be  paid  regularly  ?  The  revenues  from  Roche- 
briant  are  not  likely  to  decrease,  and  the  charge  on  them  is 
lightened  by  the  contract  with  Louvier.  And  I  will  confide  to 
you  a  hope  I  entertain  of  a  very  large  addition  to  my  rental." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  A  chief  part  of  my  rental  is  derived  from  forests,  and  De 
Finisterre  has  heard  of  a  capitalist  who  is  disposed  to  make  a 
contract  for  their  sale  at  the  fall  this  year,  and  may  probably 
extend  it  to  future  years,  at  a  price  far  exceeding  that  which  I 
have  hitherto  obtained." 

"  Pray  be  cautious.  De  Finisterre  is  not  a  man  I  should 
implicitly  trust  in  such  matters." 

"Why  .''  do  you  know  anything  against  him  ?  He  is  in  the 
best  society — perfect  gentilhomme — and,  as  his  name  may  tell 
you,  a  fellow-Breton.  You  yourself  allow,  and  so  does  F.nguer- 
rant,  that  the  purchases  he  made  for  me — in  this  apartment, 
my  horses,  etc. — are  singularly  advantageous." 

"  Quite  true  ;  the  Chevalier  is  reputed  sharp  and  clever,  is 
said  to  be  amusing,  and  a  first-rate //^z^<f/'-player.  I  don't  know 
him  personally.  I  am  not  in  his  set.  I  have  no  valid  reason 
to  disparage  his  character,  nor  do  I  conjecture  any  motive  he 
could  have  to  injure  or  mislead  you.  Still,  I  say,  be  cautious 
how  far  you  trust  to  his  advice  or  recommendation." 

"  Again  I  ask.  Why  ?  " 

^  He  is  unlucky  to  his  friends.  He  attaches  himself  much 
to  men  younger  than  himself  ;  and,  somehow  or  other,  I  have 
observed  that  most  of  them  have  come  to  grief.  Besides,  a 
person  in  whose  sagacity  I  have  great  confidence  warned  me 
against  making  the  Chevalier's  acquaintance,  and  said  to  me, 
in  his  blunt  way,  '  De  Finisterre  came  to  Paris  with  nothing  ; 
he  has  succeeded  to  nothing ;  he  belongs  to  no  ostensible  pro- 
fession by  which  anything  can  be  made.  But  evidently  now 
he  has  picked  up  a  good  deal  ;  and  in  proportion  as  any  young 
associate  of  his  becomes  ])oorer,  De  Finisterre  seems  mysteri- 
ously to  become  richer.     Shun  that  sort  of  acquaintance." 

"  Who  is  your  sagacious  adviser  ?  " 


224  "^^^^  PARISIANS. 

"  Duplessis." 

"  Ah,  I  thought  so.  That  bird  of  prey  fancies  every  other 
bird  looking  out  for  pigeons.  I  fancy  that  Duplessis  is,  like 
all  those  honey-getters,  a  seeker  after  fashion,  and  De  Finis- 
terre  has  not  returned  his  bow." 

"  My  dear  Alain,  I  am  to  blame  ;  nothing  is  so  irritatiug 
as  a  dispute  about  the  worth  of  the  men  we  like.  I  began  it, 
now  let  it  be  dropped  ;  only  make  me  one  promise,  that  if  you 
should  be  in  arrear,  or  if  need  presses,  you  will  come  at  once 
to  me.  It  was  very  well  to  be  absurdly  proud  in  an  attic,  but 
that  pride  will  be  out  of  place  in  your  appartemente  an  premier T 

"  You  are  the  best  fellow  in  the  world,  Frederic,  and  I 
make  you  the  promise  you  ask,"  said  Alain  cheerfully,  but  yet 
with  a  secret  emotion  of  tenderness  and  gratitude.  "  And  now, 
mo7i  cher,  what  day  will  you  dine  with  me  to  meet  Raoul,  and 
Enguerrand,  and  some  others  whom  you  would  like  to  know  } " 

"  Thanks,  and  hearty  ones,  but   we  move   now   in  different 
spheres,  and  I  shall  not  trespass  on  yours,    ^s  siiis  trap  hour 
geois  to  incur  the  ridicule  of  le  bourgeois  gentilhomme." 

"  Frederic,  how  dare  you  speak  thus  ?  My  dear  fellow, 
my  friends  shall  honor  you  as  I  do." 

"  But  that  will  be  on  your  account,  not  mine.  No ;  honest- 
ly, that  kind  of  society  neither  tempts  nor  suits  me.  I  am  a 
sort  of  king  in  my  own  walk  ;  and  1  prefer  my  Bohemian  roy- 
alty to  vassalage  in  higher  regions.  Say  no  more  of  it.  It 
will  Hatter  my  vanity  enough  if  you  will  now  and  then  descend 
to  my  coteries,  and  allow  me  to  parade  a  Rochebriant  as  my 
familiar  crony,  slap  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  call  him  Alain." 

"  Fie  !  you  who  stopped  me  and  the  English  aristocrat  in 
the  Champs  Elysees,  to  humble  us  with  your  boast  of  having 
fascinated  une grande  dame — I  think  you  said  a  duc/iesse.'" 

"  Oh,"  said  Lemercier,  conceitedly,  and  passing  his  hand 
through  his  scented  locks,  "  women  are  different ;  love  levels 
all  ranks.  I  don't  blame  Ruy  Bias  for  accepting  the  love  of  a 
queen,  but  I  do  blame  him  for  passing  himself  off  as  a  noble — 
a  plagiarism,  by  the  by,  from  an  English  play.  I  do  not  love 
the  English  enough  to  copy  them.  Apropos,  what  has  become 
of  ce  beau  Grarm  Yarn  1     I  have  not  seen  him  of  late." 

'  Neither  have  I." 

"  Nor  the  belle  Italienne  1 " 

"  Nor  her,"  said  Alain,  slightly  blushing. 

At  this  moment  Enguerrand  lounged  into  the  room.  Alain 
stopped  Lemercier  to  introduce  him  to  his  kinsman.     "  Enguer 


TFTE  PARISIANS.  225 

rand,  I  present  to  you  M.  Lemercier,  my  earliest  and  one  of  my 
dearest  friends.'* 

The  young  noble  held  out  liis  hand  with  the  bright  and  jo)'- 
ous  grace  which  accompanied  all  his  movements,  and  expressed 
in  cordial  words  his  delight  to  make  M.  Lemercier's  acquaint- 
ance. Bold  and  assured  as  Frederic  was  in  his  own  circles,  he 
was  more  discomposed  than  set  at  ease  by  the  gracious  accost  ol 
a  lion,  whom  he  felt  at  once  to  be  of  a  breed  superior  to  his  own. 
He  muttered  some  confused  phrases,  in  which  ravi  Tvadjlatte, 
were  alone  audible,  and  evanished. 

"  I  know  M.  Lemercier  by  sight  very  well,"  said  Enguer- 
rand,  seating  himself.  "  One  sees  him  very  often  in  the  Bois  : 
and  I  have  met  him  in  the  Coulisses  and  the  Bal  Mabille.  I 
think,  too,  that  he  plays  at  the  Bourse,  and  is  lie  with  M. 
Duplessis,  who  bids  fair  to  rival  Louvier  one  of  these  days.  Is 
Duplessis  also  one  of  your  dearest  frieds  .''  " 

"  No,  indeed.  I  once  met  him,  and  was  not  prepossessed 
in  his  favor." 

"  Nevertheless,  he  is  a  man  much  to  be  admired  and  re- 
spected." 

"  Why  so  ?  " 

*'  Because  he  understands  so  well  the  art  of  making  what 
we  all  covet — money.     I  will  introduce  you  to  him." 

"  I  have  been  already  introduced." 

"  Then  I  will  reintroduce  you.  He  is  much  courted  in  a 
society  which  I  have  recently  been  presented  by  my  father  to 
frequent — the  society  of  the  Imperial  Court." 

"  You  frequent  that  society,  and  the  Count  permits  it  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  better  the  imperialists  than  the  Republicans  ;  and 
my  father  begins  to  own  that  truth,  thought  he  is  too  old  or 
too  indolent  to  act  on  it." 

"  And  Raoul  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Raoul,  the  melancholy  and  philosophical  Raoul,  has 
BO  ambition  of  any  kind,  so  long  as — thanks  somewhat  to  me 
— his  purse  is  always  replenished  for  the  wants  of  his  stately 
existence,  among  the  foremost  of  which  wants  are  the  means 
to  supply  the  wants  of  others.  That  is  the  true  reason  why 
he  consents  to  our  glove-shop.  Raoul  belongs,  with  some  other 
young  men  of  the  faubourg,  to  a  society  enrolled  under  the 
name  of  Saint  Francois  de  Sales,  for  the  relief  of  the  poor.  He 
\isits  their  houses,  and  is  at  home  by  their  sick-beds  as  at  their 
stinted  boards.  Nor  does  he  confine  his  visitations  to  the  limits 
of  our  faubourg  ;  he  extends  his  travels  to  Monlmartre  and 
Belleville.   As  to  our  upper  worid,  he  does  not  concern  himself 


226  THE  PARISTAh^, 

much  with  its  changes.  He  says  that  '  we  have  destroyed  too 
much  ever  to  rebuild  solidly ;  and  that  whatever  we  do  build 
could  be  upset  any  day  by  a  Paris  mob,'  which  he  declares  to  be 
'  the  only  institution  we  have  left,'  A  wonderful  fellow  is  Raoul  ; 
full  of  mind,  though  he  does  little  with  it ;  full  of  heart,  which 
he  devotes  to  suffering  humanity,  and  to  a  poetic,  knightly 
reverence  (not  to  be  confounded  with  eartly  love,  and  not  to  be 
degraded  into  that  sickly  sentiment  called  Platonic  affection) 
for  the  Comtesse  di  Rimini,  who  is  six  years  old  than  himself, 
and  who  is  very  faithfully  attached  to  her  husband,  Raoul's 
intimate  friend,  whose  honor  he  would  guard  as  his  own.  It  is 
an  episode  in  the  drama  of  Parisian  life,  and  one  not  so  uncom- 
mon as  the  malignant  may  suppose.  Di  Rimini  knows  and 
approves  of  his  veneration  ;  my  mother,  the  best  of  women, 
sanctions  it,  and  deems  truly  that  it  preserves  Raoul  safe  from 
all  the  temptations  to  which  ignobler  youth  is  exposed.  I 
mention  this  lest  you  should  imagine  there  was  anything  in 
Raoul's  worship  of  his  star  less  pure  than  it  is.  For  the  rest, 
Raoul,  to  the  grief  and  amazement  of  that  disciple  of  Voltaire, 
my  respected  father,  is  one  of  the  very  few  men  I  know  in 
our  circles  who  is  sincerely  religious — an  orthodox  Catholic 
— and  the  only  man  I  know  who  practises  the  religion  he 
professes  ;  charitable,  chaste,  benevolent ;  and  no  bigot,  no  in- 
tolerant ascetic.  His  only  weakness  is  his  entire  submission  to 
the  worldly  common  sense  of  his  good-for-nothing,  covetous, 
ambitious  brother  Enguerrand.  I  cannot  say  how  I  love  him 
for  that.  If  -he  had  not  such  a  weakness,  his  excellence  would 
gall  me,  and  I  believe  I  should  hate  him." 

Alain  bowed  his  head  at  this  eulogium.  Such  had  been 
the  character  that,  a  few  months  ago,  he  would  have  sought  as 
example  and  model.  He  seemed  to  gaze  upon  a  flattered  por- 
trait of  himself  as  he  had  been, 

"  But,"  said  Enguerrand,  "  I  have  not  come  here  to  indulge 
in  the  overflow  of  brotherly  affection.  I  come  to  take  you  to 
your  relation  the  Duchess  of  Tarascon.  I  have  pledged  my- 
self to  her  to  bring  you,  and  she  is  at  home  on  purpose  to  re- 
ceive you," 

"  In  that  case  I  cannot  be  such  a  churl  as  to  refuse.  And, 
indeed,  I  no  longer  feel  quite  the  same  prejudices  against  her 
and  the  Imperialists  as  I  brought  from  Bretagne.  Shall  I  order 
my  carriage  ?  " 

"  No ;  mine  is  at  the  door.  Yours  can  meet  you  where  you 
will,  later.     AUons, 


THE  PARISIANS.  227 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  Duchesse  de  Tarascon  occupied  a  vast  apartment  in 
tlie  Rue  Royale,  close  to  the  Tuileries.  She  held  a  high  post 
among  the  ladies  who  graced  the  brilliant  Court  of  the  Em- 
press. She  had  survived  her  second  husband  the  Due,  who 
left  no  issue,  and  the  title  died  with  him.  Alain  and  Enguer- 
rand  were  ushered  up  the  grand  staircase,  lined  with  tiers  of 
costly  exotics  as  if  for  a  Jete ;  but  in  that  and  in  all  kinds  of 
female  luxury  the  Duchesse  lived  in  a  state  of  Jete  perpetuelle. 
The  doors  on  the  landing-place  were  screened  by  heavy  por- 
tieres of  Genoa  velvet,  richly  embroidered  in  gold  with  the 
ducal  crown  and  cipher.  The  two  salons  through  which  the 
visitors  passed  to  the  private  cabinet  or  boudoir  were  decorated 
with  Gobelin  tapestries,  fresh,  with  a  mixture  of  roseate  hues, 
and  depicting  incidents  in  the  career  of  the  first  Emperor ; 
while  the  effigies  of  the  late  Due's  father — the  gallant  founder 
of  a  short-lived  race — figured  modestly  in  the  background. 
On  a  table  of  Russian  malachite  within  the  recess  of  the 
central  window  lay,  preserved  in  glass  cases,  the  baton  and 
the  sword,  the  epaulettes  and  the  decorations,  of  the  brave 
Marshal.  On  the  consoles  and  the  mantelpieces  stood  clocks 
and  vases  of  Se'vres  that  could  scarcely  be  eclipsed  by  those 
in  the  Imperial  palaces.  Entering  the  cabinet,  they  found  the 
Duchesse  seated  at  her  writing-table,  with  a  small  Skye  terrier, 
hideous  in  the  beauty  of  the  purest  breed,  nestled  at  her  feet. 
This  room  was  an  exquisite  combination  of  costliness  and 
comfort — Luxury  at  home.  The  hangings  were  of  geranium- 
colored  silk,  with  double  curtains  of  white  satin ;  near  to  the 
writing-table  a  conservatory,  with  a  white  marble  fountain  at 
play  in  the  centre,  and  a  ticllised  aviary  at  the  back.  The 
walls  were  covered  with  small  pictures. — chiefly  portraits  and 
miniatures  of  the  members  of  the  Imperial  family,  of  the 
late  Due,  of  his  father  the  Marshal  and  Madame  la  Mare'ch>le, 
of  the  present  Duchesse  herself,  and  of  some  of  the  piincipal 
ladies  of  the  Court. 

The  Duchesse  was  still  in  the  prime  of  life.  She  had 
passed  her  fortieth  year,  but  was  so  well  "  conserved  "  that  you 
might  have  guessed  her  to  be  ten  years  younger.  She  was 
♦all ;  not   large — but   with  rounded   figure    inclined  to  anbon- 


2  28  THE  PARISIANS. 

point ;  with  dark  hair  and  eyes,  but  fair  complexion,  injured 
in  effect  rather  than  improved  by  pearl-powder,  and  that 
atrocious  barbarism  of  a  dark  stain  on  the  eyelids  which  has 
of  late  years  been  a  baneful  fashion  ;  dressed — I  am  a  man, 
and  cannot  describe  her  dress — all  I  know  is,  that  she  had  the 
acknowledged  fame  of  the  best-dressed  subject  of  France.  As 
she  rose  from  her  seat,  there  was  in  her  look  and  air  the  un- 
mistakable evidence  of  grande  dame ;  a  family  likeness  in 
feature  to  Alain  himself,  a  stronger  likeness  to  the  picture  of 
her  first  cousin — his  mother — which  was  preserved  at  Roche- 
briant.  Her  descent  was  indeed  from  ancient  and  noble 
houses.  But  to  the  distinction  of  race  she  added  that  of  fashion, 
crowning  both  with  a  tranquil  consciousness  of  lofty  position 
and  unblemished  reputation. 

"  Unnatural  cousin,"  she  said  to  Alain,  offering  her  hand 
to  him,  with  a  gracious  smile  ;  "  all  this  age  in  Paris,  and  I 
see  you  for  the  first  time.  But  there  is  joy  on  earth  as  in 
heaven  over  sinners  who  truly  repent.  You  repent  truly — 
ficst-ce  pas  ?  " 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  caressing  charm  which  the 
Duchesse  threw  into  her  words,  voice,  and  look.  Alain  was 
fascinated  and  subdued. 

"  Ah,  Madame  la  Duchesse,"  said  he,  bowing  over  the  fair 
hand  he  lightly  held,  "  it  was  not  sin,  unless  modesty  be  a 
sin,  which  made  a  rustic  hesitate  long  before  he  dared  to  offer 
his  homage  to  the  queen  of  the  graces." 

"  Not  badly  said  for  a  rustic,"  cried  Enguerrand ;  "  eh, 
Madame  ?  " 

"  My  cousin,  you  are  pardoned,"  said  the  Duchesse.  "  Com- 
pliment is  the  perfume  of  gentilhomtnerie.  And  if  you 
brought  enough  of  that  perfume  from  the  flowers  of  Roche- 
briant  to  distribute  among  the  ladies  at  Court,  you  will  be 
terribly  the  viode  there.  Seducer  !  " — here  she  gave  the 
Marquis  a  playful  tap  on  the  cheek,  not  in  a  coquettish  but 
in  a  mother-like  familiarity,  and,  looking  at  him  attentively, 
said,  "  Why,  you  are  even  handsomer  than  your  father.  T 
shall  be  proud  to  present  to  their  Imperial  Majesties  so  be- 
coming a  cousin.  But  seat  yourselves  here,  Messieurs,  close  to 
my  arm-chair  ;  causonsy 

The  Duchesse  then  took  up  the  ball  of  the  conversation. 
She  talked  without  any  apparent  artifice,  but  with  admirable 
tact ;  put  just  the  questions  about  Rochebriant  most  calcu- 
lated to  please  Alain,  shunning  all  that  might  have  pained 
him  ;  asking  him  for  descriptions  of  the  surrounding  scenery 


THE  PAR  IS  TANS.  22g 

— the  Breton  legends  ;  hoping  that  the  old  castle  would  never 
be  spoiled  by  modernizing  restorations  ;  inquiring  tenderly 
after  his  aunt,  whom  she  had  in  her  childhood,  once  seen,  and 
still  remembered  with  her  sweet,  grave  face  ;  paused  little  for 
leplies;  then  turned  to  Enguerrand  with  sprightly  small-talk 
un  the  topics  of  the  day,  and  every  now  and  then  bringing 
Alain  into  the  pale  of  the  talk,  leading  on  insensibly  until 
she  got  Enguerrand  himself  to  introduce  the  subject  of  the 
Emperor,  and  the  political  troubles  which  were  darkening  a 
reign  heretofore  so  prosperous  and  splendid. 

Her  countenance  then  changed ;  it   became  serious,  and 
even  grav^e,  in  its  expression. 

"  It  is  true,"  she  said,  "  that  the  times  grow  menacing — 
menacing  not  only  to  the  throne,  but  to  order  and  property  and 
France.  One  by  one  they  are  removing  all  the  breakwaters 
which  the  Empire  had  constructed  between  the  executive  and 
the  most  fickle  and  impulsive  population  that  ever  shouted 
•  long  live'  one  day  to  the  man  whom  they  would  send  to  the 
guillotine  the  next.  They  are  denouncing  what  they  call  per- 
sonal government — grant  that  it  has  its  evils  ;  but  what  would 
they  substitute  .'' — a  constitutional  monarchy  like  the  English  ? 
That  is  impossible  with  universal  suffrage  and  without  a  hered- 
itary chamber.  The  nearest  approach  to  it  was  the  monarchy 
of  Louis  i^hillippe — we  know  how  sick  they  became  of  that.  A 
republic  }  mon  Dieu  !  composed  of  republicans  terrified  out  of 
their  wits  at  each  other.  The  moderate  men,  mimics  of  the 
Girondins,  with  the  Reds,  and  the  Socialists,  and  the  Com- 
munists, ready  to  tear  them  to  pieces.  And  then — what  then  } 
— the  commercialists,  the  agriculturists,  the  middle  class  com- 
bining to  elect  some  dictator  who  will  cannonade  the  mob,  and 
become  a  mimic  Napoleon,  grafted  on  a  mimic  Necker  or 
mimic  Danton.  Oh,  Messieurs,  1  am  French  to  the  core  !  You 
inheritors  of  such  names  must  be  as  French  as  I  am  ;  and  yet 
you  men  insist  on  remaining  more  useful  to  France  in  the  midst 
of  her  need  than  I  am, — I,  a  woman  who  can  but  talk  and 
weep." 

The  Duchesse  spoke  with  a  warmth  of  emotion  which  start 
led  and  profoundly  affected  Alain.  He  remained  silent,  leav 
ing  it  to  Enguerrand  to  answer. 

"  Dear  Madame,"  said  the  latter,  "  I  do  not  see  how  either 
myself  or  our  kinsman  can  merit  your  reproach.  We  are  not 
legislators.  I  doubt  i^  there  is  a  single  department  in  France 
that  would  elect  us,  if  we  offered  ourselves.  It  is  not  our  fault 
if  the  various  floods  of  revolution  leave  men  of  our  birth  and 


?30  THE  PARlSIAiVS. 

opinions  stranded  wrecks  of  a  perished  world.  The  Emperor 
chooses  his  own  advisers,  and  if  they  are  bad  ones,  his  Majesty 
certainly  will  not  ask  Alain  and  me  to  replace  them." 

"  You  do  not  answer — you  evade  me,"  said  the  Duchesse, 
with  a  mournful  smile.  '"  You  are  too  skilled  a  man  of  the  world, 
M.  Enguerrand,  not  to  know  that  it  is  not  only  legislators  and 
ministers  that  are  necessary  to  the  support  of  a  throne  and  the 
safeguard  of  a  nation.  Do  you  not  see  how  great  a  help  it  is  to 
both  throne  and  nation  when  that  section  of  public  opinion 
which  is  represented  by  names  illustrious  in  history,  identified 
with  records  of  chivalrous  deeds  and  loyal  devotion,  rallies 
round  the  order  established  ?  Let  that  section  of  public  opinion 
stand  aloof,  soured  and  discontented,  excluded  from  active  life, 
lending  no  counterbalance  to  the  perilous  oscillations  of  demo- 
cratic passion,  and  tell  me  if  it  is  not  an  enemy  to  itself  as  well 
as  a  traitor  to  the  principles  it  embodies  .''  " 

"  The  principles  it  embodies,  Madame,"  said  Alain,  "  are 
those  of  fidelity  to  a  race  of  kings  unjustly  set  aside,  less  for 
the  vices  than  the  virtues  of  ancestors.  Louis  XV.  was  the 
worst  of  the  Bourbons, — he  was  the  bien-aime, — he  escapes  ; 
Louis  XVL  was  in  moral  attributes  the  best  of  the  Bour- 
bons,— he  dies  the  death  of  a  felon  ;  Lous  XVIIL,  against 
whom  much  may  be  said,  restored  to  the  throne  by  foreign 
bayonets,  reigning  as  a  disciple  of  Voltaire  might  reign, 
secretly  scoffing  alike  at  the  royalty  and  the  religion  which 
were  crowned  in  his  person,  dies  peacefully  in  his  bed  ; 
Charles  X.,  redeeming  the  errors  of  his  youth  by  a  reign 
untarnished  by  a  vice,  by  a  religion  earnest  and  sincere,  is 
sent  into  exile  for  defending  established  order  from  the  very 
inroads  which  you  lament.  He  leaves  an  heir  against  whom 
calumny  cannot  invent  a  tale,  and  that  heir  remains  an  out- 
law simply  because  he  descends  from  Henry  IV.  and  has  a 
right  to  reign.  Madame,  you  appeal  to  us  as  among  the  repre- 
sentatives of  the  chivalrous  deeds  and  loyal  devotion  which 
characterized  the  old  nobility  of  France.  Should  we  deserve 
that  character  if  we  forsook  the  unfortunate,  and  gained 
wealth  and  honor  in  forsaking?  " 

"  Your  words  endear  you  to  me.  I  am  proud  to  call  you 
cousin,"  said  the  Duchesse.  "  But  do  you,  or  does  any  man 
in  his  senses,  believe  that  if  you  ujDset  the  Empire  you  could 
get  back  the  Bourbons  ?  that  you  would  not  be  in  imminent 
danger  of  a  government  infinitely  more  opposed  to  the  theo- 
ries on  which  rest  the  creed  of  Legitimists  than  that  of 
Louis  Napoleon  ?  After   all,  what  is   there    in    the   loyalty   of 


THE  PARISIANS.  231 

you  Bourbonites  that  has    in    it   the    solid  worth    of    an    argu 
ment  which    can    appeal    to    the    comprehension    of   mankind, 
except  it  be  the  principle    of  a   hereditary   monarchy  ."  Nobody 
nowadays    can    maintain    the    right    divine    of    a  single    regal 
family    to    impose    itself     upon     a   nation.     That    dogma  has 
ceased  to  be  a  living  principle  ;  it  is  only  a  dead  reminiscence. 
But  the    institution    of  monarchy    is    a     principle    strong    and 
vital,  and  appealing  to  the  practical  interests    of   vast    sections 
of  society.     Would   you  sacrifice  the  principle   which   concerns 
the  welfare  of  millions,  because  you   cannot    embody  in    it    the 
person  of  an  individual    utterly    insignificant    in    himself  }     In 
a  word,  if  you  prefer  monarchy  to    the    hazard  of   republican- 
ism for  such  a  country  as    France,    accept   the    monarchy  you 
find,  since  it  is  quite  clear   you    cannot    rebuild    the   monarchy 
you  would  prefer.     Does  it    not   embrace    all  the  great  objects 
for   which  you  call  yourself  Legitimist  ?  Under   it    religion    is 
honored,  a  national   church   secured  in  reality    if  not  in    name  ; 
under  it  you  have   united   the  votes   of   millions   to   the  estab 
lishment  of  the  throne  ;  under  it   all  the   material   interests   of 
the  country,    commercial,  agricultural,   have  advanced  with   an 
unequalled    rapidity   of   progress  ;  under  it    Paris  has  become 
the  wonder  of  the    world    for    riches,    for    splendor,    for   grace 
and  beauty  ;  under  it  the    old    traditional    enemies    of  France 
have  been   humbled   and  rendered    impotent.     The    policy  of 
Richelieu  has  been  achieved  in  the   abasement  of  Austria  ;  the 
policy  of  Napoleon  I.  has   been   consummated    in  the  salvation 
of    Europe     from    the     semi-barbarous     ambition     of     Russia. 
England  no  longer  casts   her  trident   in    the  opposite   scale  of 
the  balance  of  European  power.     Satisfied    with    the    honor  of 
our  alliance,    she  has  lost  every    other  ally  ;  and   her    forces 
neglected,  her   spirit   enervated,  her  statesmen   dreaming  be- 
lievers in  the  safety  of  their    island    provided    they   withdraw 
from  the  affairs  of  Europe,  may    sometimes  scold  us,  but  will 
certainly  not  dare    to  fight.     With  France    she   is   but   an   ;'n- 
ferior  satellite  ;  without    France    she  is — nothing.     Add  to  all 
this  a  Court  more  brilliant  than   that  of  Louis  XIV.,   a   sover- 
eign   not  indeed  without  faults  and  errors,  but  singularly  mild 
in    his    nature,    warm-hearted    to    friends,    forgiving    to   foes, 
whom  personally  no   one    could   familiarly   know    and    not   be 
charmed  with  a  hotite  of  character   lovable   as   that   of  Henri 
IV., — and  tell  me  what  more   than    all  this   could   you   expect 
from  the  reign  of  a  Bourbon  .'  " 

"  With  such  results,"  said  Alain,  "  from  the  monarchy  you 
so  eloquently  praise,  I    fail  to  discover  what  the    Emperor's 


232  THE  PARISIANS. 

throne  could  possibly  gain  by  a  few  powerless  converts  from 
an  unpopulai  and,  you  say  no  doubt  truly,  from  a  hopeless 
cause." 

"  I  say  monarchy  gains  much  by  the  loyal  adhesion  of  any 
man  of  courage,  ability  and  honor.  Every  new  monarchy 
gains  much  by  conversions  from  the  ranks  by  which  the  older 
monarchies  were  strengthened  and  adorned.  But  I  do  not 
here  invoke  your  aid  merely  to  this  monarchy,  my  cousin  ;  I 
demand  your  devotion  to  the  interests  of  France  ;  I  demand 
that  you  should  notrest  an  outlaw  from  her  service.  Ah,  you 
think  that  France  is  in  no  danger — that  you  may  desert  or  oppose 
the  Empire  as  you  list,  and  that  society  will  remain  safe  !  You 
are  mistaken.     Ask  Engeurrand." 

"  Madame,"  said  Enguerrand,  "  you  overrate  my  political 
knowledge  in  that  appeal  ;  but,  honestly  speaking,  I  subscribe 
to  your  reasonings.  I  agree  with  you  that  the  Empire  sorely 
needs  the  support  of  men  of  honor  :  it  has  one  cause  of  rot 
which  now  undermines  it — dishonest  jobbery  in  its  administra- 
ave  departments  ;  even  in  that  of  the  army,  which  apparentlv 
is  so  heeded  and  cared  for.  I  agree  with  you  that  France  is 
in  danger,  and  may  need  the  swords  of  all  her  better  sons, 
whether  against  the  foreigner,  or  against  her  worst  enemies — • 
the  mobs  of  her  great  towns.  I  myself  received  a  militarv 
education,  and  but  for  my  reluctance  to  separate  myself  from 
my  father  and  Raoul,  I  should  be  a  candidate  for  employments 
more  congenial  to  me  than  those  of  the  Bourse  and  my  trade 
in  the  glove-shop.  But  Alain  is  happily  free  from  all  family 
ties,  and  Alain  knows  that  my  advice  to  him  is  not  hostile  to 
your  exhortations." 

"  I  am  glad  to  think  he  is  under  so  salutary  an  influence,'' 
said  the  Duchesse  ;  and,  seeing  that  Alain  remained  silent  and 
thoughtful,  she  wisely  changed  the  subject,  and  shortly  after- 
wards the  two  friends  took  leave.  ■   ■ 


CHAPTER     IV. 


Three  days  elapsed  before  Graham  again  saw  M.  Eebeau, 
The  letter-writer  did  not  show  himself  at  the  cafe^  and  was  not 
to  be  found  at  his  office,  the  ordinary  business  of  which  was 
transacted  by  his  clerk,  saying  that  his  master  was  much  en- 
gaged on  important  matters  that  took  him  from  home. 


THE  PARISIANS.  233 

Graham  naturally  thought  that  these  matters  concerned  the 
discovery  of  Louise  Duval,  and  was  reconciled  to  suspense.  At 
the  cafe,  awaiting  Lebeau,  he  had  slid  into  some  acquaintance 
with  the  ouvrier  Armand  Monnier,  whose  face  and  talk  had  be- 
fore excited  his  interest.  Indeed,  the  acquaintance  had  been 
commenced  by  the  ouvrier,  who  seated  himself  at  a  table  near 
to  Graham's,  and,  after  looking  at  him  earnestly  for  some  min- 
utes, said,  "  You  are  waiting  for  your  antagonist  at  dominoes, 
M.  Lebeau — a  very  remarkable  man." 

"  So  he  seems.  I  know,  however,  but  little  of  him.  You, 
perhaps,  have  known  him  longer." 

"  Several  months.  Many  of  your  countrymen  frequent  this 
cafe,  but  you  do  not  seem  to  care  to  associate  with  the  blouses. " 

"It  is  not  that;  but  we  islanders  are  shy,  and  don't  make 
acquaintance  with  each  other  readily.  By  the  way,  since  you 
so  courteously  accost  me,  I  may  take  the  liberty  of  saying  that 
I  overheard  you  defend  the  other  night,  against  one  of  my 
countrymen,  who  seemed  to  me  to  talk  great  nonsense,  the  ex- 
istence of  le  Bon  Dieu.  You  had  much  the  best  of  it.  I  rather 
gathered  from  your  argument  that  you  went  somewhat  further, 
and  were  not  too  enlightened  to  admit  of  Christianity." 

Armand  Monnier  looked  pleased  :  he  liked  praise,  and  he 
liked  to  hear  himself  talk,  and  he  plunged  at  once  into  a  very 
complicated  sort  of  Christianity — partly  Arian,  partly  St.  Si- 
monian,  with  a  little  of  Rousseau  and  a  great  deal  of  Armand 
Monnier.  Into  this  we  need  not  follow  him  ;  but,  in  sum,  it 
was  a  sort  of  Christianity  the  main  heads  of  which  consisted  in 
the  removal  of  your  neighbor's  landmarks — in  the  right  of  the 
poor  to  appropriate  the  property  of  the  rich — in  the  right  of 
love  to  dispense  with  marriage,  and  the  duty  of  the  state  to 
provide  for  any  children  that  might  result  from  such  union,  the 
parents  being  incapacitated  to  do  so,  as  whatever  they  might 
leave  was  due  to  the  treasury  in  common.  Graham  listened  to 
these  doctrines  with  melancholy  not  unmixed  with  contempt, 
"  Are  these  opinions  of  yours,"  he  asked,  "  derived  from  read 
ing  or  your  own  reflection  ?  " 

"Well,  from  both,  but  from  circumstances  in  life  that  in- 
duced me  to  read  and  reflect.  I  am  one  of  the  many  victims 
of  the  tyrannical  law  of  marriage.  When  very  young  I  mar- 
ried a  woman  who  made  me  miserable  and  then  forsook  me. 
Morally,  she  has  ceased  to  be  my  wife — legally,  she  is.  I  then 
met  with  another  woman,  who  suits  me,  who  loves  me.  She 
lives  with  me ;  I  cannot  marry  her  ;  she  has  to  submit  to  hu- 
miliations— be   called    contemptuously   an    ouvrier's  mistress. 


234  THE  PARISIANS. 

Then,  thou£;h  before  I  was  only  a  Republican,  I  felt  there  was 
something  wrong  in  society  which  needed  a  greater  change 
than  that  of  a  merely  political  government ;  and  then,  too, 
when  I  was  all  troubled  and  sore,  I  chanced  to  read  one  of 
Madame  de  Grantmesnil's  books.  A  glorious  genius  that  wo- 
man's !  " 

"  She  has  genius,  certainly,"  said  Graham,  with  a  keen  pang 
at  his  heart ;  Madame  de  Grantmesnil,  the  dearest  friend  of 
Isaura  !  "But,"  he  added,  " though  I  believe  that  eloquent 
author  has  indirectly  assailed  certain  social  institutions,  includ- 
ing that  of  marriage,  I  am  perfectly  persuaded  that  she  never 
designed  to  effect  such  complete  overthrow  of  the  system  which 
all  civilized  communities  have  hitherto  held  in  reverence,  as 
your  doctrines  would  attempt ;  and,  after  all,  she  but  expresses 
her  ideas  through  the  medium  of  fabulous  incidents  and  char- 
acters. And  men  of  your  sense  should  not  look  for  a  creed  in 
the  fictions  of  poets  and  romance-writers." 

"  Ah,"  said  Monnier,  "  I  daresay  neither  Madame  de  Grant- 
mesnil nor  even  Rousseau  ever  even  guessed  the  ideas  they 
awoke  in  their  readers  ;  but  one  idea  leads  on  to  another. 
And  genuine  poetry  and  romance  touch  the  heart  so  much 
more  than  dry  treatises.  In  a  word,  Madame  de  Grantmesnil's 
book  set  me  thinking  ;  and  then  I  read  other  books,  and  talked 
with  clever  men,  and  educated  myself.  And  so  1  became  the 
man  I  am."  Here,  with  a  self-satisfied  air,  Monnier  bowed  to 
the  Englishman,  and  joined  a  group  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room. 

The  next  evening,  just  before  dusk,  Graham  Vane  was 
seated  musingly  in  his  own  apartment  in  the  Faubourg  Mont- 
martre,  when  there  came  a  slight  knock  at  his  door.  He  was 
so  wrapt  in  thought  that  he  did  not  hear  the  sound,  though 
twice  rejDeated.  The  door  opened  gently,  and  M.  Lebeau  ajv 
peared  on  the  threshold.  The  room  was  lighted  only  by  the 
gas-lamp  from  the  street  without. 

Lebeau  advanced  through  the  gloom,  and  quietly  seated 
himself  in  the  corner  of  the  fireplace  opposite  to  Graham  be- 
fore he  spoke.  "  A  thousand  pardons  for  disturbing  your 
slumbers,  M.  Lamb." 

Startled  then  by  the  voice  so  near  him,  Graham  raised  his 
head,  looked  round,  and  beheld  very  indistinctly  the  person 
seated  so  near  him. 

"  M.  Lebeau  .?  " 

"  At  your  service.  I  promised  to  give  an  answer  to  you] 
question  :    accept  my  apologies  that  it  has  been  deferred  sc 


THK  PA R IS r A, VS.  235 

long.     I  shall  not  this  evening  go  to  our  cafe;  I  took  tlic  lib- 
erty of  calling " 

"  M.  Lebeau,  you  are  a  brick  ?  " 

"  A  what,  Monsieur ! — a  brique  ?  " 

"  I  forgot — 3'ou  are  not  up  to  our  fashionable  London 
idioms.  A  brick  means  a  jolly  fellow,  and  it  is  very  kind  in 
you  to  call.     What  is  your  decision  '}  " 

"  Monsieur,  I  can  give  you  some  information,  but  it  is  so 
slight  that  I  offer  it  gratis  and  forego  all  thought  of  undertak- 
ing further  inquiries.  They  could  only  be  prosecuted  in  an- 
other country,  and  it  would  not  be  worth  my  while  to  leave 
Paris  on  the  chance  of  gaining  so  trifling  a  reward  as  you  pro- 
pose. Judge  for  yourself.  In  the  year  1849,  and  in  the  month 
of  July,  Louise  Duval  left  Paris  for  Aix-la-Chapelle.  There 
she  remained  some  weeks,  and  then  left  it.  I  can  learn  no 
further  traces  of  her  movements." 

"  Aix-la-Chapelle  1 — what  could  she  do  there  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  Spa  in  great  request ;  crowded  during  the  summer 
season  with  thousands  of  visitors  from  all  countries.  She  might 
have  gone  there  for  health  or  pleasure." 

"  Do  you  think  that  one  could  learn  more  at  the  Spa  itselt  if 
one  went  there  ?  " 

"  Possibly.     But  it  is  so  long — twenty  years  ago," 

"  She  might  have  revisited  the  place." 

*'  Certainly  ;  but  I  know  no  more." 

"Was  she  there  under  the  same  name — Duval  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  that." 

"  Do  you  think  she  left  it  alone,  or  with  others  ?  You  tell  me 
she  was  awfully  de//e — she  might  have  attracted  admirers." 

*'  If,"  answered  Lebeau,  reluctantly,  "  I  can  believe  the  re- 
port of  my  informant,  Louise  Duval  left  Aix  not  alone,  but  with 
some  gallant — not  an  Englishman.  They  are  said  to  have 
parted  soon  and  the  man  is  now  dead.  But,  speaking  frankly, 
I  do  not  think  Mademoiselle  Duval  would  have  thus  com- 
promised her  honor  and  sacrificed  her  future.  I  believe  she 
would  have  scorned  all  proposals  that  were  not  those  of  mar- 
riage. But  all  I  can  say  for  certainty  is,  that  nothing  is  known 
to  me  of  her  fate  since  she  quitted  Aix-la-Chapelle." 

"  In  1849 — ^^^^  ^'''^'^  then  a  child  living?  " 

"  A  child  ?  I  never  heard  that  she  had  any  child  ;  and  I  do 
not  believe  she  could  have  had  any  child  in  1849." 

Graham  mused.  Somewhat  less  than  five  years  after  1849 
I^ouise  Duval  Lad  been  seen  at  Aix-la-Chapelle.  Possibly  she 
found  some  att/ action  at    that    place,    and   might   yet    be    dis- 


236  THE  PARIS /A  NS. 

covered  there.  "  Monsieur  Lebeau,"  said  Graham  "  you  know 
this  lady  by  sight ;  you  would  recognize  her  in  spite  of  the  lapse  of 
years.  Will  you  go  to  Aix  and  find  out  there  what  you  can  ? 
Of  course,  expenses  will  be  paid,  and  the  reward  will  be  given 
if  you  succeed  ." 

"  I  cannot  oblige  you.  My  interest  in  this  poor  lady  is  not 
ver}-  strong,  though  I  should  be  willing  to  serve  her,  and  glad 
to  know  she  were  alive.  I  have  now  business  on  hand  which 
interests  me  much  more,  and  which  will  take  me  from  Paris  but 
not  in  the  direction  of  Aix." 

"If  I  wrote  to  my  employer  and  got  him  to  raise  the  reward 
to  some  higher  amount  that  might  make  it  worth  your  while  ? " 

"  I  should  still  answer  that  my  affairs  will  not  permit  such  a 
journey.  But  if  there  be  any  chance  of  tracing  Louise  Duval 
at  Aix — and  there  may  be — you  will  succeed  quite  as  well  as  I 
should.  You  must  judge  for  yourself  if  it  be  worth  your  trouble 
to  attempt  such  a  task  ;  and  if  you  do  attempt  it,  and  do  succeed, 
pray  let  me  know.  A  line  to  my  office  will  reach  me  for  some 
little  time,  even  if  I  am  absent  from   Paris.     Adieu  M.  Lamb." 

Here  M.  Lebeau  rose  and  departed. 

Graham  relapsed  into  thought,  but  a  train  of  thought  much 
more  active,  mueh  more  concentred  than  before.  "  No," 
thus  ran  his  meditations  ;  "  no  it  would  not  be  safe  to 
employ  that  man  further.  The  reasons  that  forbid  me  to 
offer  any  very  high  reward  for  the  discovery  ofthat  woman 
operate  still  more  strongly  against  tendering  to  her  own 
relation  a  sum  that  might  indeed  secure  aid,  but  would  un- 
questionably arouse  suspicions,  and  perhaps  drag  into  light  all 
that  must  be  concealed.  Oh,  this  cruel  mission  !  I  am  indeed 
an  impostor  to  myself  until  it  is  fulfilled.  I  will  go  to  Aix,  and 
take  Kenard  with  me.  I  am  impatient  till  I  set  out,  but  I  can- 
not quit  Paris  without  once  more  seeing  Isaura.  She  consents 
to  relinquish  the  stage  ;  surely  I  could  wean  her  too  from  inti- 
mate friendship  with  a  woman  whose  genius  has  so  fatal  an  effect 
on  enthusiastic  minds.     And  then — and  then  ?" 

He  fell  into  a  delightful  reverie  ;  and,  contemplating  Isaura 
as  his  future  wife,  he  surrounded  her  sweet  image  with  all  those 
attributes  of  dignity  and  respect  with  which  an  Englishman  is 
accustomed  to  invest  the  destined  bearer  of  his  name,  the  gen 
lie  sovereign  of  his  household,  the  sacred  mother  of  his  chil 
dren.  In  this  picture  the  more  brilliant  qualities  of  Isaura 
found  perhaps,  but  faint  presentation.  Her  glow  of  sentiment, 
her  play  of  fancy,  her  artistic  yearnings  for  truths  remote,  for 
the  invisible  fairyland  of  beautiful  romance,  reced*''  into  the 
background  of  the  picture.     It  was  all  these,  no  doubt,  that  had 


THE  PAKISIAXS.  237 

SO  strengthened  and  enriched  the  love  at  first  sight,  which  had 
shaken  the  equilibrium  of  his  positive  existence ;  and  yet  he 
now  viewed  all  these  as  subordinate  to  the  one  image  of 
mild  decorous  matronage  into  which  wedlock  was  to  transform 
the  child  of  genius,  longing  for  angel  wings  and  unlimited 
space. 


CHAPTER  V. 


On  quitting  the  sorry  apartment  of  the  false  M.  I.amb, 
Lebeau  walked  on  with  slow  steps  and  bended  head,  like  a 
man  absorbed  in  thought.  He  threaded  a  labyrinth  of  obscure 
streets,  no  longer  in  the  Faubourg  Montmartre,  and  dived  at 
last  into  one  of  the  few  courts  which  preserve  the  cachet  of  the 
moyen  age  untouched  by  the  ruthless  spirit  of  improvement 
which,  during  the  Second  Empire,  has  so  altered  the  face  of 
Pans.  At  the  bottom  of  the  court  stood  a  large  house,  much 
dilapidated,  but  bearing  the  trace  of  former  grandeur  in  pilas- 
lers  and  fretwork  in  the  style  of  the  Renaissance,  and  a  defaced 
coat  of  arms,  surmounted  with  a  ducal  coronet,  over  the  door- 
way. The  house  had  the  aspect  of  desertion  :  many  of  the 
windows  were  broken,  others  were  jealously  closed  with  mould- 
ering shutters.  The  door  stood  ajar ;  Lebeau  pushed  it  open, 
and  the  action  set  in  movement  a  bell  within  a  porter's  lodge. 
The  house,  then,  was  not  uninhabited  ;  it  retained  the  dignity  of 
a  concierge.  A  man  with  a  large  grizzled  beard  cut  square,  and 
holding  a  journal  in  his  hand,  emerged  from  the  lodge,  and 
moved  his  cap  with  a  certain  bluff  and  surly  reverence  on  re- 
cognizing Lebeau. 

"  What  I  so  early  citizen  ?" 

"Is  it  too  early  .'"'  said  Lebeau  glancing  at  his  watch.  "  So 
it  is.  I  was  not  aware  of  the  time  ;  but  1  am  tired  with  waiting. 
Let  me  into  the  salon.  I  will  wait  for  the  rest ;  I  shall  not  be 
sorry  for  a  little  repose." 

^' Bon,"  said  the  porter  senteniously  :"  while  man  reposes 
men  advance," 

"  A  profound  truth,  Citizen  Le  Roux ;  though,  if  they  ad- 
vance on  a  reposing  foe,  they  have  blundering  leaders  unless 
they  march  through  unguarded  by-paths  and  with  a  noiseless 
tread." 


238  THE  PARISIANS. 

Following  the  porter  up  a  dingy  broad  staircase,  Lebeau 
was  admitted  into  a  large  room,  void  of  all  other  furniture  than 
a  table,  two  benches  at  its  sides,  and  ?ifauteuilzt  its  head.  On 
the  mantlepiece  was  a  huge  clock,  and  some  iron  sconces  were 
fixed  on  the  panelled  walls. 

Lebeau  flung  himself  with  a  wearied  air  into  the  fauteuil 
The  porter  looked  at  him  with  a  kindly  expression.  He  had  a 
liking  to  Lebeau,  whom  he  had  served  in  his  proper  profession 
of  messenger  or  commissionnaire  before  being  placed  by  that 
courteous  employer  in  the  easy  post  he  now  held.  Lebeau,  in- 
deed, had  the  art,  when  he  pleased,  of  charming  inferiors  ;  his 
knowledge  of  mankind  allowed  him  to  distinguish  peculiarities 
in  each  individual  and  flatter  the  amour-propre  by  deference  to 
such  eccentricities.  Marc  le  Roux,  the  roughest  of  "red  caps," 
had  a  wife  of  whom  he  was  very  proud.  He  would  have  called 
the  Empress  Citoyenne  Eugenie,  but  he  always  spoke  of  his  wife 
as  Madame.  Lebeau  won  his  heart  by  always  asking  after 
Madame. 

"You  look  tired,  citizen,"  said  the  porter;  "Let  me  bring 
you  a  glass  of  wine." 

"  Thank  you,  nion  ami,  no.  Perhaps  later  if  I  have  time, 
after  we  break  up,  to  pay  my  respects  to  Madame." 

The  porter  smiled,  bowed,  and  retired,  muttering,  "  No7n 
(f  un  petit  bonhomme — ilfi'y  a  rien  de  tel  que  les  belles  manicres." 

Left  alone,  Lebeau  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  table,  resting 
his  chin  on  his  hand,  and  gazing  into  the  dim  space — for  it 
was  now,  indeed,  night,  and  little  light  came  through  the 
grimy  panes  of  the  one  window  left  unclosed  by  shutters. 
He  was  musing  deeply.  This  man  was,  in  much,  an  enigma  to 
himself.  Was  he  seeking  to  unriddle  it  ?  A  strange  com- 
pound of  contradictory  elements.  In  his  stormy  youth  there 
had  been  lightning-like  flashes  of  good  instincts,  of  irregular 
honor,  of  inconsistent  generosity — a  puissant  wild  nature — 
with  strong  passions  of  love  and  of  hate,  without  fear,  but 
not  without  shame.  In  other  forms  of  society  that  love  of 
applause  which  had  made  him  seek  and  exult  in  the  notoriety 
which  he  mistook  for  fame  might  have  settled  down  into 
some  solid  and  useful  ambition.  He  might  have  become  great 
in  the  world's  eye,  for  at  the  service  of  his  desires  there  were 
no  ordinary  talents.  Though  too  true  a  Parisian  to  be  a 
severe  student,  still,  on  the  whole,  he  had  acquired  much 
general  information,  partly  from  books,  partly  from  varied 
commerce  with  mankind.  He  had  the  gift,  both  by  tongue 
and  by  pen,  of  expressing  himself  with  loice   and    warmth — 


THE  PARISIANS.  239 

time  and  necessity  had  improved  that  gift.  Coveting,  during 
his  brief  career  of  fashion,  tlie  distinctions  which  necessiate 
lavish  expenditure,  he  had  been  the  most  reckless  of  spend- 
thrifts, but  the  neediness  which  follows  waste  had  never  de- 
stroyed his  original  sense  of  personal  honor.  Certainly  Victor  de 
Mauldon  was  not,  at  the  date  of  his  fall,  a  man  to  whom  the 
thought  of  accepting,  much  less  of  stealing,  the  jewels  of  a 
woman  who  loved  him,  could  have  occurred  as  a  possible 
question  of  casuistry  between  honor  and  temptation.  Nor  could 
that  sort  of  question  have,  through  the  sternest  trials  or  the 
humblest  callings  to  which  his  after-life  had  been  subjected, 
forced  admission  into  his  brain.  He  was  one  of  those  men, 
perhaps  the  most  terrible  though  unconscious  criminals,  who  are 
the  offsprings  produced  by  intellectual  power  and  egotistical 
ambition.  If  you  had  offered  to  Victor  de  Mauleon  the  crown 
of  the  Caesars,  on  condition  of  his  doing  one  of  those  base 
things  which  "  a  gentleman"  cannot  do, — pick  a  pocket,  cheat 
at  cards,  — Victor  de  Mauleon  would  have  refused  the  crown. 
He  would  not  have  refused  on  account  of  any  laws  of  morality 
affecting  the  foundations  of  the  social  system,  but  from  the 
pride  of  his  own  personality.  "  I,  Victor  de  Maule'on  !  I  pick 
a  pocket !  I  cheat  at  cards!  1 !  "  But  when  something  incalculably 
worse  for  the  interests  of  society  than  picking  a  pocket  or 
cheating  at  cards  was  concerned:  when,  for  the  sake  either  of 
private  ambition,  or  political  experiment  hitherto  untested,  and 
therefore  very  doubtful,  the  peace  and  order  and  happiness 
of  millions  might  be  exposed  to  the  release  of  the  most  savage 
passions — rushing  on  revolutionary  madness  or  civil  massacre — 
then  this  French  dare-devil  would  have  been  just  as  unscrupu- 
lous as  any  English  philosopher  whom  a  metropolitan  borough 
might  elect  as  its  representative.  The  system  of  the  Empire 
was  in  the  way  of  Victor  de  Mauleon — in  the  way  of  his 
private  ambition,  in  the  way  of  his  political  dogmas — and  there- 
fore it  must  be  destroyed,  no  matter  what  or  whom  it  crushed 
beneath  its  ruins.  He  was  one  of  those  plotters  of  revolutions 
not  uncommon  in  democracies,  ancient  and  modern,  who  invoke 
popular  agencies  with  the  less  scruple  because  they  have  a 
surpreme  contempt  for  the  populace.  A  man  with  mental 
powers  equal  to  De  Mauldon's,  and  who  sincerely  loves  the 
people  and  respects  the  grandeur  of  aspiration  with  which,  in 
the  great  upheaving  of  their  masses,  they  so  often  contrast  the 
irrational  credulities  of  their  ignorance  and  the  blind  fury  of 
their  wrath  is  always  exceedingly  loath  to  pass  the  terrible  gulf 
that  divides  reform  from  revolution.     He  knows  how  rarely  it 


240  THE  PARISIANS. 

happens  that  genuine  liberty  is  not  disarmed  in  the  passage,  and 
what  suffering  must  be  undergone  by  those  who  live  by  their  habor 
during  the  dismal  intervals  between  the  sudden  destruction  of 
one  form  of  society  and  the  gradual  settlement  of  another. 
Such  a  man,  however,  has  no  t3^pe  in  a  Victor  de  Mauldon. 
The  circumstances  of  his  life  had  placed  this  strong  nature  at 
war  with  society,  and  corrupted  into  misanthropy  affections 
that  had  once  been  ardent.  That  misanthropy  made  his  am- 
bition more  intense,  because  it  increased  his  scorn  for  the 
human  instruments  it  employed. 

Victor  de  Maule'on  knew  that,  however  innocent  of  the 
charges  that  had  so  long  darkened  his  name,  and  however — 
thanks  to  his  rank,  his  manners,  his  savoir-vivre — the  aid  of 
Louvier's  countenance,  and  the  support  of  his  own  high-born 
connections — he  might  restore  himself  to  his  rightful  grade  in 
private  life,  the  higher  prizes  in  public  life  would  scarcely  be 
within  reach,  to  a  man  of  his  antecedents  and  stinted  means,  in 
the  existent  forms  and  conditions  of  established  political  order. 
Perforce,  the  aristocrat  must  make  himself  democrat  if  he 
would  become  a  political  chief.  Could  he  assist  in  turning 
upside  down  the  actual  state  of  things,  he  trusted  to  his  indi- 
vidual force  of  character  to  find  himself  among  the  uppermost  in 
the  genial  houleversement.  And  in  the  first  stage  of  popular 
revolution  the  mob  has  no  greater  darling  than  the  noble  who 
deserts  his  order,  though  in  the  second  stage  it  may  guillotine 
him  at  the  denunciation  of  his  cobbler.  A  mind  so  sanguine 
and  so  audacious  as  that  of  Victor  de  MauMon  never  thinks  of 
the  second  step  if  it  sees  a  way  to  the  first. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  room  was  in  complete  darkness,  save  where  a  ray  from 
a  gas-lamp  at  the  mouth  of  the  court  came  aslant  through  the  win- 
dow, when  Citizen  Le  Roux  re-entered,  closed  the  window,  light- 
ed two  of  the  sconces,  and  drew  forth  from  a  drawer  in  the  table 
implements  of  writing,  which  he  placed  thereon  noielesslv,  as  if 
he  feared  to  disturb  M.  Lebeau,  whose  head,  buried  in  his 
Iiand,  rested  on  the  table.  He  seemed  in  a  profound  sleep. 
At  last  the  porter  gently  touched  the  arm  of  the  slumberer, 
and  whispered  in  his  ear,  '  It  is  on   the  stroke  of  ten,  citizen: 


THE  PARISIANS.  241 

they  will  be  here  in  a  minute  or  so."  Lebeaii  lifted  his  head 
drowsily. 

"  Eh,"  said  he—"  what  ?  " 

"  You  have  been  asleep." 

"  I  suppose  so,  for  I  have  been  dreaming.  Ha  !  I  hear  the 
door-bell.     I  am  wide  awake  now." 

The  porter  left  him,  and  in  a  few  minutes  conducted  into 
the  salo7i  two  men  wrapped  in  cloaks,  despite  the  warmth  of 
the  summer  night.  LelDeax  shook  hands  with  them  silently, 
and  not  less  silently  they  laid  aside  their  cloaks  and  seated 
themselves.  Both  these  men  appeared  to  belong  to  the  upper 
section  of  the  middle  class.  One,  strongly  built,  with  a  keen 
expression  of  countenance,  was  a  surgeon  considered  able  in 
his  profession,  but  with  limited  practice,  owing  to  a  current 
suspicion  against  his  honor  in  connection  with  a  forged  will. 
The  other,  tall,  meagre,  with  long  grizzled  hair  and  a  wild 
unsettled  look  about  the  eyes,  was  a  man  of  science  ;  had 
written  works  well  esteemed  upon  mathematics  and  electricity, 
also  against  the  existence  of  any  other  creative  power  than 
that  which  he  called  "  nebulosity  "  and  defined  to  be  the  com- 
bination of  heat  and  moisture.  The  surgeon  was  about  the 
age  of  forty,  the  atheist  a  few  years  older.  In  another  min- 
ute or  so,  a  knock  was  heard  against  the  wall.  One  of  the 
men  rose  and  touched  a  spring  in  the  panel,  which  then  flew 
back  and  showed  an  opening  upon  a  narrow  stair,  by  which, 
one  after  the  other,  entered  three  other  members  of  the  society. 
Evidently  there  was  more  than  one  mode  of  ingress  ^nd  exit. 

The  three  new-comers  were  not  Frenchmen — one  mi^ht 
see  that  at  a  glance  :  probably  they  had  reasons  for  greater 
precaution  than  those  who  entered  by  the  front  door.  Ot^e, 
a  tall,  powerfully-built  man,  with  fair  hair  and  beard,  dressed 
with  a  certain  pretension  to  elegance — faded  threadbare  ele- 
gance— exhibiting  no  appearance  of  linen,  was  a  Pole.  One 
• — a  slight  bald  man,  very  dark  and  sallow — was  an  Italian. 
I'he  third,  who  seemed  like  an  ouvrier  in  his  holiday  clothes, 
tvas  a  Belgian. 

Lebeau  greeted  them  all  with  an  equal  courtesy,  and  each 
with  an  equal  silence  took  his  seat  at  the  table. 

Lebeau  glanced  at  the  clock.  "  Cwz/r^/rj-,"  he  said,  "our 
number,  as  fixed  for  this  seance^  still  needs  two  to  be  complete, 
and  doubtless  they  will  arrive  in  a  few  minutes.  Till  they  come 
we  can  but  talk  upon  trifles.  Permit  me  to  offer  you  my  cigar- 
case."  And,  so  saying,  he  who  professed  to  be  no  smoker  handed 
his  next  neighbor,  who   was  the  Pole,  a  large  cigar-case  amply 


242  THE  PARISIANS. 

furnished ;  and  the  Pole,  helping  himself  to  two  cigars,  handed 
the  case  to  the  man  next  to  him — two  only  declined  the  luxury 
the  Italian  and  the  Belgian.  But  the  Pole  was  the  only  man, 
who  took  two  cigars. 

Steps  were  now  heard  on  the  stairs,  the  door  opened,  and 
Citizen  Le  Roux  ushered  in,  one  after  the  other,  two  men  this 
time  unmistakably  French — to  an  experienced  eye  unmistakably 
Parisians  :  the  one  a  young  beardless  man,  who  seemed  almost 
boyish,  with  a  beautiful  face,  and  a  stinted  meagre  frame  ;  the 
other,  a  stalwart  man  of  about  eight-and-twenty,  dressed  partly 
as  an  ouvrier,  not  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  rather  affecting  the 
bloicse, — not  that  he  wore  that  antique  garment,  but  that  he  was 
in  a  rough  costume  unbrushed  and  stained,  with  thick  shoes 
and  coarse  stockings,  and  a  workman's  cap.  But  of  all  who 
gathered  round  the  table  at  which  M.  Lebeau  presided,  he  had, 
the  most  distinguished  exterior.  A  virile  honest  exterior,  a 
massive  open  forehead,  intelligent  eyes,  a  handsome  clear-cut 
incisive  profile,  and  solid  jaw.  The  expression  of  the  face  was 
stern,  but  not  mean — an  expression  which  might  have  become 
an  ancient  baron  as  well  as  a  modern  workman — in  it  plenty  of 
haughtiness  and  of  will,  and  still  more  of  self-esteem. 

"  Confreres"  said  Lebeau,  rising,  and  every  eye  turned  to 
nim,  "  our  number  for  the  present  seance  is  complete.  To  bus- 
iness. Since  we  last  met,  our  cause  has  advanced  with  rapid 
and  not  with  noiseless  stride.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  Louis 
Bonaparte  has  virtually  abnegated  les  idees  Napoleotiiennes — a 
fatal  mistc^ve  for  him,  a  glorious  advance  for  us.  The  Liberty 
of  the  press  must  very  shortly  be  achieved,  and  with  it  personal 
government  must  end.  When  the  autocrat  once  is  compelled 
to  go  by  the  advice  of  his  ministers,  look  for  sudden  changes. 
His  Ministers  will  be  but  weathercocks,  turned  hither  and 
thither  according  as  the  wind  chops  at  Paris  and  Paris  is  the 
temple  of  the  winds.  The  new  revolution  is  almost  at  hand." 
(Murmurs  of  applause.)  "  It  would  move  the  laughter  of  the 
Tuileries  and  its  Ministers,  of  the  Bourse  and  of  its  gamblers, 
of  every  dainty  salon  of  the  silken  city  of  would-be  philosophers 
and  wits,  if  they  were  told  that,here  within  this  mouldering  bar- 
aque,  eight  men  so  little  blest  by  fortune,  so  little  known  to  fame 
as  ourselves,  met  to  concert  the  fall  of  an  empire.  The  Govern- 
ment would  not  deem  us  important  enough  to  notice  our  exist- 
ence." 

"  I  know  not  that,"  interrupted  the  Pole. 

"  Ah,  pardon,"  resumed  the  orator  ;  "  I  should  have  confined 
my  remark  to  \\\Q.five  of  us  who  are  Fiench.     I  did  injustice  to 


THE  PARISIANS.  2+3 

the  illustrious  antecedents  of  our  foreign  allies.  I  know  that  you 
Thaddeus  Loubisky — that  you,  Leonardo  Raselli — have  been  t^x) 
eminent  for  hands  hostile  to  tyrants  not  to  be  marked  with  a 
black  cross  in  the  books  of  the  police.  I  know  that  you,  Jan 
Vanderstegen,  if  hitherto  unscarred  by  those  wounds  ir.  defence 
of  freedom  which  despots  and  cowards  would  fain  miscall  the 
) 'rands  of  the  felon,  still  owe  it  to  your  special  fraiernity  to 
keep  your  movements  rigidly  concealed.  The  tyrant  would 
suppress  the  International  Society,  and  forbids  it  the  liberty  of 
congress.  To  you  three  is  granted  the  secret  entrance  to  our 
council-hall.  But  we  Frenchmen  are  as  yet  safe  in  our  supposed 
insignificance.  Confreres,  permit  me  to  impress  on  you  the 
causes  why,  insignificant  as  we  seem,  we  are  really  formidable. 
In  the  first  place  we  are  few  :  the  great  mistake  in  most  secret 
associations  has  been,  to  admit  many  councillors;  and  disunion 
enters  wherever  many  tongues  can  wrangle.  In  the  next  place 
though  so  few  in  council,  we  are  legion  when  the  time  comes 
for  action,  because  we  are  representative  men  each  of  his  own 
section,  and  each  section  is  capable  of  an  indefinite  expan- 
sion. 

"  You,  valiant  Pole — you,  politic  Italian — enjoy  the  cor  • 
fidence  of  thousands  now  latent  in  unwatched  homes  and 
harmless  callings,  but  who,  when  you  lift  a  finger,  will,  like 
the  buried  dragon's  teeth,  spring  up  into  armed  men.  You, 
Jan  Vanderstegen,  the  trusted  delegate  from  Verviers,  that 
swarming  camp  of  wronged  labor  in  its  revolt  from  the  in- 
iquities of  capital — you,  when  the  hour  arrives,  can  touch  the 
wire  that  flashes  the  telegram  '  Arise '  through  all  the  lands  in 
which  workmen  combine  against  their  oppressors. 

"  Of  us  five  Frenchmen,  let  me  speak  more  modestly.  You 
— sage  and  scholar — Felix  Ruvigny,  honored  alike  for  the 
profundity  of  your  science  and  the  probity  jf  your  manners, 
induced  to  join  us  by  your  abhorrence  of  priestcraft  and  su[.t;r- 
stition — you  have  a  wide  connection  among  all  the  enlightened 
reasoners  who  would  emancipate  the  mind  of  man  from  the 
trammels  of  Church-born  fable — and  when  the  hour  arrives  in 
which  it  is  safe  to  say,  '  Delenda  est  Roma,^  you  know  where  to 
find  the  pens  that  are  more  victorious  than  swords  against  a 
Church  and  a  Creed.  You  "(turning  to  the  surgeon)  "  you, 
Gaspard  le  Noy,  whom  a  vile  calumny  has  robbed  of  the 
throne  in  your  profession,  so  justly  due  to  your  skill — you, 
nobly  scorning  the  rich  and  great,  have  devoted  yourself  to 
tend  and  heal  the  humble  and  the  penniless,  so  that  you  have 
won  the  popular  title  of  the  Medecin  des  Fauvres,' — when  the 


244  THE  PARISIANS. 

time  comes  wherein  soldiers  shall  fly  before  the  satis  ailolfes, 
and  the  mob  shall  begin  the  work  which  they  who  move  mobs 
will  complete,  the  clients  of  Gaspard  le  Noy  will  be  the  avengers 
of  his  wrongs. 

"  Vou,  Armand  Monnier,  simple  ouvrier,  but  of  illustrious 
parentage,  for  your  grandsire  was  the  beloved  friend  of  the 
virtuous  Robespierre,  your  father  perished  a  hero  and  a  martyr 
in  the  massacre  of  the  coicp-d'etat ;  you,  cultured  in  the 
eloquence  of  Robespierre  himself,  and  in  the  persuasive  phi- 
losophy of  Robespierre's  teacher,  Rousseau — you,  the  idolizeol 
orator  of  the  Red  Republicans — you  will  be  indeed  a  chief  of 
dauntless  bands  when  the  trumpet  sounds  for  battle.  Young 
publicist  and  poet,  Gustave  Rameau — I  care  not  which  you  are 
at  present,  I  know  what  you  will  be  soon — you  need  nothing 
for  the  development  of  your  powers  over  the  many  but  an 
organ  for  their  manifestation.  Of  that  anon.  I  now  descend 
into  the  bathos  of  egotism.  I  am  compelled  lastly  to  speak  of 
myself.  It  was  at  Marseilles  and  Lyons,  as  you  already  know, 
that  I  first  conceived  the  plan  of  this  representative  association. 
For  years  before  I  had  been  in  familiar  intercourse  with  the 
friends  of  freedom — that  is,  with  the  foes  of  the  Empire.  They 
are  not  all  poor.  Some  few  are  rich  and  generous.  I  do  not 
say  these  rich  and  few  concur  in  the  ultimate  objects  of  the 
poor  and  many.  But  they  concur  in  the  first  object,  the  demo- 
lition of  that 'which  exists — the  Empire,  In  the  course  of  my 
special  calling  of  negotiator  or  agent  in  the  towns  of  the  Midi, 
1  formed  friendships  with  some  of  these  prosperous  malcontents. 
And  out  of  these  friendships  I  conceived  the  idea  which  is 
embodied  in  this  council. 

"According  to  that  conception,  while  the  council  may  com- 
municate as  it  will  with  all  societies,  secret  or  open,  having 
revolution  for  their  object,  the  council  refuses  to  merge  itself  in 
any  other  confederation  :  it  stands  aloof  and  independent ;  it 
declines  to  admit  into  its  code  any  special  articles  of  faith  in  a 
future  beyond  the  bonds  to  which  it  limits  its  design  and  its 
force.  That  design  unites  us;  to  go  beyond  would  divide. 
We  a'l  agree  to  destroy  the  Napoleonic  dynasty  ;  none  of  us 
mi^ht  agree  as  to  what  we  should  place  in  its  stead.  All  of 
us  here  present  might  say, '  A  republic'  Ay,  but  of  what  kind  ? 
Vanderstegen  would  have  it  socialistic  ;  Monnier  goes  further, 
and  would  have  it  communistic,  on  the  principle  of  Fourier; 
Le  Noy  adhers  to  the  policy  of  Danton,  and  would  commence 
tlie  republic  by  a  reign  of  terror;  our  Italian  ally  abhors  the 
notion  of  general  massacre,  and  advocates  individual  assassina- 


THE  PARISIANS.  245 

tion.  Ruvigny  would  annihilate  the  worship  of  a  De'.ty  ;  Monniei 
holds,  with  Voltaire  and  Robespierre,  that  '  if  there  were  no 
Deity  it  would  be  necessary  to  Man  to  create  one.'  Bref, 
we  could  not  agree  upon  any  plan  for  the  new  edifice,  and 
therefore  we  refuse  to  discuss  one  till  the  ploughshare  has  gone 
over  the  ruins  of  the  old.  But  I  have  another  and  more 
practical  reason  for  keeping  our  council  distinct  from  al< 
societies  with  professed  objects  beyond  that  of  demolition. 
We  need  a  certain  command  of  money.  It  is  I  who  bring  to 
you  that,  and — how  ?  Not  from  my  own  resources  ;  they  but 
suffice  to  support  myself.  Not  by  contributions  from  ouvriers^ 
who,  as  you  well  know,  will  subscribe  only  for  their  own  ends 
in  the  victory  of  workmen  over  masters.  I  bring  money  to 
you  from  the  coffers  of  the  rich  malcontents.  Their  politics 
are  not  those  of  most  present  ;  their  politics  are  what  they 
term  moderate.  Some  are  indeed  for  a  republic,  but  for  a 
republic  strong  in  defence  of  order,  in  support  of  property  ; 
others — and  they  are  the  most  numerous  and  the  more  rich — • 
for  a  constitutional  monarchy,  and,  if  possible,  for  the  abridg 
ment  of  universal  suffrage,  which,  in  their  eyes,  tends  only  to 
anarchy  in  the  towns  and  arbitrary  rule  under  priestly  influence 
in  the  rural  distincts.  They  would  not  subscribe  a  sou  if  they 
thought  it  went  to  further  the  designs  whether  of  Ruvigny  the 
atheist,  or  of  Monnier,  who  would  enlist  the  Deity  of  Rousseau 
on  the  side  of  the  drapeau  rouge — not  a  sou  if  they  knew  I  had 
the  honor  to  boast  such  confreres  as  I  see  around  me.  They 
subscribe,  as  we  concert,  for  the  fall  of  Bonaparte.  The  policy 
I  adopt  1  borrow  from  the  policy  of  the  English  Liberal.  In 
England,  potent  millionaires,  high-born  dukes,  devoted  Church- 
men, belonging  to  the  Liberal  party,  accept  the  services  of 
men  who  look  forward  to  measures  which  would  ruin  capital, 
eradicate  aristocracy,  and  destroy  the  Church,  provided  these 
men  combine  with  them  in  some  immediate  step  onward  against 
the  Tories.  They  have  a  proverb  which  I  thus  adapt  to  French 
localities  :  If  a  train  passes  Fontainebleau  on  its  way  to 
Marseilles,  why  should  I  not  take  it  to  Fontainebleau  because 
other  passengers  are  going  on  to  Marseilles  "i 

"  Confreres^  it  seems  to  me  the  moment  has  come  when 
we  may  venture  some  of  the  fund  placed  at  my  disposal  to 
other  purposes  than  those  to  which  it  has  been  hitherto  de- 
voted. I  propose,  therefore,  to  set  up  a  journal  under  the 
auspices  of  Gustave  Rameau  as  editor-in-chief — a  journal 
which,  if  he  listen  to  my  advice,  will  create  no  small  sensa- 
tion.    It  will  begin  with  a   tone  of  impartiality :  it  will  refrain 


246  THE  PARISIANS. 

from  all  violence  of  invective;  it  will  have- wit,  it  will  have 
sentiment  and  eloquence  ;  it  will  win  its  way  into  ihe  salons  and 
Ciifes  of  educated  men  ;  and  then,  and  then,  when  it  does  change 
from  polished  satire  into  fierce  denunciation  and  sides  with  the 
blouses,  its  effect  will  be  startling  and  terrific.  Of  this  1  will 
say  more  to  Citizen  Rameau  in  private.  To  you  I  need  not 
enlarge  upon  the  fact  that,  at  Paris,  a  combination  of  men, 
though  immeasurably  superior  to  us  in  status  or  influence, 
without  a  journal  at  command,  is  nowhere  ;  with  such  a  journal, 
wiitten  not  to  alarm  but  to  seduce  fluctuating  opinions,  a  com- 
bination of  men  immeasurably  inferior  to  us  may  be  anywhere. 

"  Cofi/reres,  this  affair  settled,  I  proceed  to  distribute  among 
you  sums  of  which  each  who  receives  will  render  me  an  account, 
except  our  valued  confrere  the  Pole.  All  that  we  can  subscribe 
to  the  cause  of  humanity,  a  representative  of  Poland  requires 
for  himself."  (A  suppressed  laugh  among  all  but  the  Pole, 
who  looked  round  with  a  grave,  imposing  air,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  What  is  there  to  laugh  at  ? — a  simple  truth.") 

M.  Lebeau  then  presented  to  each  of  his  confreres  a  sealed 
envelope,  containing  no  doubt  a  bank-note,  and  perhaps  also 
private  instructions  as  to  its  disposal.  It  was  one  of  his  rules 
to  make  the  amount  of  any  sum  granted  to  an  individual  mem- 
ber of  the  society  from  the  fund  at  his  disposal  a  confidential 
secret  between  himself  and  the  recipient.  Thus  jealousy  was 
avoided  if  the  sums  were  unequal ;  and  unequal  they  generally 
were.  In  the  present  instance  the  two  largest  sums  were  given 
to  the  Mcdccin  des  Pauvres  and  to  the  delegate  from  Verviers. 
Both  were  no  doubt  to  be  distributed  among  "  the  poor,"  at  the 
discretion  of  the  trustee  appointed. 

Whatever  rules  with  regard  to  the  distribution  of  money 
M.  Lebeau  laid  down  were  acquiesced  in  without  a  demur,  for 
the  money  was  found  exclusively  by  himself,  and  furnished 
without  the  pale  of  the  Secret  Council,  of  which  he  had  made 
himself  founder  and  dictator.  Some  other  business  was  then 
discussed,  sealed  reports  from  each  member  were  handed  to 
tlie  president,  who  placed  them  unopened  in  his  pocket,  and 
resumed — 

"  Cotfreres,  our  seajice  is  now  concluded.  The  period  for 
our  next  meeting  must  remain  indefinite,  for  I  myself  shall 
leave  Paris  as  soon  as  I  have  set  on  foot  the  journal,  on  the 
details  of  which  I  will  confer  with  Citizen  Rameau.  I  ani  not 
satisfied  with  the  progress  made  by  the  two  travelling  mission- 
aries who  complete  our  Council  of  Ten ;  and  though  I  do  not 
question  their  zeal,  I   think   my  experience  may  guide  it  if  J 


THE  FAI^ISIAA'S.  247 

take  a  journey  to  the  towns  of  Bordeaux  and  Marseilles,  where 
they  now  are.  But  should  circumstances  demanding  concert  or 
action  arise,  you  may  be  sure  that  I  will  either  summon  a  meet- 
ing or  transmit  instructions  to  such  of  our  members  as  may  be 
most  usefully  employed.  For  the  present,  cofifrereSy  you  are 
lelieved.     Remain  only  you,  dear  young  author." 


CHAPTER  VII. 


Left  alone  with  Gustave  Rameau,  the  president  of  the  Se- 
cret Council  remained  silently  musing  for  some  moments ;  but 
his  countenance  was  no  longer  mooody  and  overcast — his  nos- 
trils were  dilated,  as  in  triumph — there  was  a  half-smile  of 
pride  on  his  lips.  Rameau  watched  him  curiously  and  admir- 
ingly. The  young  man  had  the  impressionable,  excitable  tem- 
perament common  to  Parisian  genius — especially  when  it  nour- 
ishes itself  on  absinthe.  He  enjoyed  the  romance  of  belong- 
ing to  a  secret  society  ;  he  was  acute  enough  to  recognize  the 
sagacity  by  which  this  small  conclave  was  kept  out  of  those 
crazed  combinations  for  impracticable  theories,  more  likely  to 
jead  adventurers  to  the  Tarpeian  Rock  than  to  the  Capitol ;  while 
yet  those  crazed  combinations  might,  in  some  critical  moment, 
become  strong  instruments  in  the  hands  of  practical  ambition. 
Lebeau  fascinated  him  and  took  colossal  proportions  in  his  in- 
toxicated vision — vision  indeed  intoxicated  at  this  moment,  for 
before  it  floated  the  realized  image  of  his  aspirations, — a  jour- 
nal of  which  he  was  to  be  editor-in-chief — in  which  his  poetry, 
his  prose,  should  occupy  space  as  large  as  he  pleased — through 
which  his  name,  hitherto  scarcely  known  beyond  a  literary 
clique,  would  resound  in  salon  and  club  and  cafe,  and  become  a 
familiar  music  on  the  lips  of  fashion.  And  he  owed  b'.s  to  the 
man  seated  there — a  prodigious  man  ! 

"  Cher poete"  said  Lebeau,  breaking  silence,  "it  gives  me  no 
mean  pleasure  to  think  I  am  opening  a  career  to  one  whose 
talents  fit  him  for  those  goals  on  which  they  who  reach  write 
rames  that  posterity  shall  read.  Struck  wdth  certain  articles 
r  f  yours  in  the  journal  made  celebrated  by  the  wit  and  gayety  of 
Savarin,  I  took  pains  privately  to  inquire  into  your  birth,  your 
history,  connections,  antecedents.  All  confirmed  my  first  im- 
pression, that  you  were  exactly  the  writer  I  wished  to  secure  to 


248  THE  PARIS  TANS. 

our  cause.  I  therefore  sought  you  in  }our  rooms,  unintro- 
duced  and  a  stranger,  in  order  to  express  my  admiration  of 
your  compositions.  Brcf,  we  soon  became  friends  ;  and  after 
comparing  minds,  I  admitted  you,  at  your  request,  into  this  Se- 
cret Council.  Now,  in  proposing  to  you  the  conduct  of  the 
journal  I  would  establish,  for  which  I  am  prepared  to  find  all 
necessary  funds,  I  am  compelled  to  make  imperative  condi- 
tions. Nominally  you  will  be  editor-in-chief:  that  station,  if  the 
journal  succeed,  will  secure  you  position  and  fortune  ;  if  it  fail, 
you  will  fail  with  it.  But  we  will  not  speak  of  failure  ;  I  must 
have  it  succeed.  Our  interest,  then,  is  the  same.  Before  that 
interest  all  puerile  vanities  fade  away.  Nominally,  I  say,  you 
are  editor-in-chief;  but  all  the  real  work  of  editing  will,  at  first, 
be  done  by  others." 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Rameau,  aghast  and  stunned.  Lebeau 
resumed — 

"  To  establish  the  journal  I  propose  needs  more  than  the 
genius  of  youth  ;  it  needs  the  tact  and  experience  of  mature 
v^ears." 

Rameau  sank  back  on  his  chair  with  a  sullen  sneer  on  his 
pale  lips.  Decidedly  Lebeau  was  not  so  great  a  man  as  he  had 
thought. 

"  A  certain  portion  of  the  journal,"  continued  Lebeau,  "  wil^ 
be  exclusively  appropriated  to  your  pen." 

Rameau's  lip  lost  the  sneer. 

"  But  your  pen  must  be  therein  restricted  to  compositions 
of  pure  fancy,  disporting  in  a  world  that  does  not  exist ;  or,  if 
on  graver  themes  connected  with  the  beings  of  the  world  that 
does  exist,  the  subjects  will  be  dictated  to  you  and  revised. 
Yet  even  in  the  higher  department  of  a  journal  intended  to 
make  w'ay  at  its  first  start,  we  need  the  aid,  not  indeed  of  men 
who  write  better  than  you,  but  of  men  whose  fame  is  estab- 
lished— whose  writings,  good  or  bad,  the  public  run  to  read, 
anc  will  find  good  even  if  they  are  bad.  You  must  consign 
on£  column  to  the  playful  comments  and  witticisms  of  Sa- 
vann." 

"  Savarin  ?  But  he  has  a  journal  of  his  own.  He  will  not, 
as  an  author,  condescend  to  write  in  one  just  set  up  by  me. 
And  as  a  politician,  he  as  certainly  will  not  aid  in  an  ultra- 
democratic  revolution.  If  he  care  for  politics  at  all,  he  is  a 
constitutionalist,  an  Orleanist," 

'■'^  Enfant  I  as  an  author  Savarin  will  condescend  lo  con- 
tribute to  your  journal,  first;  because  it  in  no  way  attempts  ic 
interfere  with  his  own  ;  secondly — I  can  tell  you  a  secret — Sa 


THE  PARISIANS.  249 

varin's  journal  no  longer  suffices  for  his  existence  ;  he  has  sold 
more  than  two-thirds  of  his  property;  he  is  in  debt,  and  his 
creditor  is  urgent ;  and  to-morrow  you  will  offer  Savarin  thirty 
thousand  francs  for  one  column  from  his  pen,  and  signed  by 
his  name,  for  two  months  from  the  day  the  journal  starts.  He 
will  accept,  partly  because  he  will  take  care  that  the  amount 
becomes  known,  and  that  will  help  him  to  command  higher 
terms  for  the  sale  of  the  remaining  shares  in  the  journal  he 
now  edits,  for  the  new  book  which  you  told  me  he  intended  to 
write,  and  for  the  new  journal  which  he  will  be  sure  to  set  up 
ss  soon  as  he  has  disposed  of  the  old  one.  You  say  that,  as  a 
politician,  Savarin,  an  Orleanist,  will  not  aid  in  an  ultra-demo- 
cratic revolution.  Who  asks  him  to  do  so  ?  Did  I  not  imply 
at  the  meeting  that  we  comnjence  our  journal  with  politics  the 
mildest  .-*  Though  revolutions  are  not  made  with  rose-water,  it 
is  rose-water  that  nourishes  their  roots.  The  polite  cynicism 
of  authors,  read  by  those  who  lioat  on  the  surface  of  society, 
prepares  the  way  for  the  social  ferment  in  its  deeps.  Had 
there  been  no  Voltaire  there  would  have  been  no  Camille  Des- 
moulins.  Had  there  been  no  Diderot  there  would  have  been 
no  Marat.  We  start  as  polite  cynics.  Of  all  cynics  Savarin  is 
the  politest.  But  when  I  bid  high  for  him,  it  is  his  clique  that 
I  bid  for.  Without  his  clique  he  is  but  a  wit ;  with  his  clique, 
a  power.  Partly  out  of  that  clique,  partly  out  of  a  circle  be- 
yond it,  which  Savarin  can  more  or  less  influence,  I  select  ten. 
Here  is  the  list  of  them  ;  study  it.  Entre  nous,  I  esteem  their 
writings  as  little  as  I  do  artificial  flies  ;  but  they  are  the  arti- 
ficial flies  at  which,  in  this  particular  season  of  the  year,  the 
public  rise.  You  must  procure  at  least  five  of  the  ten  ;  and  I 
leave  you  carte  blanche  as  to  the  terms.  Savarin  gained,  the 
best  of  them  will  be  proud  of  being  his  associates.  Observe, 
none  of  these  messieurs  of  brilliant  imagination  are  to  write 
political  articles  ;  those  will  be  furnished  to  you  anonymously 
and  inserted  without  erasure  or  omission.  When  you  have  se- 
cured Savarin,  and  five  at  least  of  the  collaborateurs  in  the  list, 
write  to  me  at  my  office.  I  give  you  four  days  to  do  this  ;  and 
the  day  the  journal  starts  you  enter  into  the  income  of  fifteen 
thousand  francs  a  year,  with  a  rise  in  salary  proportioned  to 
profits.     Are  you  contented  with  the  terms  .''  " 

"  Of  course  I  am  ;  but  supposing  I  do  not  gain  the  aid  of 
Savarin,  or  five  at  least  of  the  list  you  give,  which  I  see  at  a 
glance  contains  names  the  most  a  la  fnode  in  this  kind  of  writing, 
more  than  one  of  them  of  high  social  rank,  whom  it  is  difficult 
for  me  even  to  approach — if,  I  say,  I  fail  ?  " 


250 


THE  PAKISIANS. 


"  What !  with  a  carte  blanche  of  terms  ?  fie  !  Are  you  a 
Parisian  ?  Well,  to  answer  you  frankly,  if  you  fail  in  so  easy  a 
task,  you  are  not  the  man  to  edit  our  journal,  and  I  shall  find 
another.  AUcz,  courage  !  Take  my  advice  ;  see  Savarin  the  first 
thing  to-morrow  morning.  Of  course,  my  name  and  calUng  you 
will  keep  a  profound  secret  from  him  as  from  all.  Say  as  mys- 
teriously as  you  can  that  parties  you  are  forbidden  to  name 
instruct  you  to  treat  with  M.  Savarin  and  offer  him  the  terms  I 
l)ave  specified,  the  thirty  thousand  francs  paid  to  him  in  advance 
the  moment  he  signs  the  simple  memorandum  of  agreement. 
The  more  mysterious  you  are,  the  more  you  will  impose — tha: 
is,  wherever  you  offer  money  and  don't  ask  for  it." 

Here  Lel^eau  took  up  his  hat,  and,  with  a  courteous  nod  of 
adieu,  lightly  descended  the  gloomy  stairs. 


CHAPTER  VHL 


At  night,  after  this  final  interview  with  Lebeau,  Graham 
took  leave  for  good  of  his  lodgings  in  Montmartre,  and  returned 
to  his  apartment  in  the  Rue  d'Anjou.  He  spent  several  hours 
of  the  next  morning  in  answering  numerous  letters,  accumulated 
during  his  absence.  Late  in  the  afternoon  he  had  an  interview 
with  M.  Renard,  who,  as  at  that  season  of  the  year  he  was  not 
overbusied  with  other  affairs,  engaged  to  obtain  leave  to  place 
his  services  at  Graham's  command  during  the  time  requisite 
for  inquiries  at  Aix,  and  to  be  in  readiness  to  start  the  next  day. 
Graham  then  went  forth  to  pay  one  or  two  farewell  visits,  and, 
these  over,  bent  his  way  through  the  Champs  Elysees  towards 
Isaura's  villa,  when  he  suddenly  encountered  Rochebriant  on 
horseback.  The  marquis  courteously  dismounted,  committing 
his  horse  to  the  care  of  the  groom,  and,  linking  his  arm  in 
Graham's,  expressed  his  pleasure  at  seeing  him  again  ;  then, 
with  some  visible  hesitation  and  embarrassment,  he  turned  the 
conversation  towards  the  political  aspects  of  France. 

"There  was,"  he  said,  "much  in  certain  words  of  yours, 
when  we  last  walked  together  in  this  very  path  that  sank 
deeply  into  my  mind  at  the  time,  and  over  which  I  have  of 
late  still  more  earnestly  reflected.  You  spoke  of  the  duties  a 
Frenchman  owed  to  France,  and  the  '  impolicy  '  of  remainin? 


THE  PARISIANS.  251 

aloof  from  all  public  employment  on  the  part  of  those  attached 

to  the  Legitimist  cause." 

"  True,  it  cannot  be  the  policy  of  any  party  to  forget  that 
between  the  irrevocable  past  and  the  uncertain  future  there 
intervenes  the  action  of  the  present  time," 

"  Should  you,  as  an  impartial  bystander,  consider  it  dis- 
honorable in  me  if  1  entered  the  military  service  vrder  '^he 
ruling  sovereign  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  if  your  country  needed  you," 
"  And  it  may,  may  it  not  ?  I  hear  vague  rumors  of  coming 
war  in  almost  ever}'  salon  I  frequent.  There  has  been  gun- 
powder in  the  atmosphere  we  breathe  ever  since  the  battle  of 
Sadowa,  What  think  you  of  German  arrogance  and  ambi- 
tion ?  Will  they  suffer  the  swords  of  France  to  rust  in  their 
scabbards  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Marquis,  I  should  incline  to  put  the  question 
otherwise.  Will  the  jealous  ajuour-propre  of  France  permit  the 
swords  of  Germany  to  remain  sheathed  ?  But,  in  either  case,  no 
politician  can  see  without  grave  apprehension  two  nations  so 
warlike,  close  to  each  other,  divided  by  a  border-land  that  one 
covets  and  the  other  will  not  yield,  each  armed  to  the  teeth  • 
the  one  resolved  to  brook  no  rival,  the  other  equally  determined 
to  resist  all  aggression.  And  therefore,  as  you  say,  war  is  in 
the  atmosphere  ;  and  we  may  also  hear,  in  the  clouds  that  give 
no  sign  of  dispersion,  the  growl  of  the  gathering  thunder. 
War  may  come  any  day  ;    and  if  France  be  not  at  once  the 

victor " 

"France  not  at  once  the  victor!"  interrupted  Alain,  pas- 
sionately ;  "  and  against  a  Prussian  I  Permit  me  to  say  no 
Frenchman  can  believe  that," 

"  Let  no  man  despise  a  foe,"  said  Graham,  smiling  half 
sadly.  "  However,  I  must  not  incur  the  danger  of  wounding 
your  national  susceptibilities.  To  return  to  the  point  you  raise. 
If  France  needed  the  aid  of  her  best  and  bravest,  a  true 
descendant  of  Henri  Quatre  ought  to  blush  for  his  ancient 
noblesse  were  a  Rochebriant  to  say,  '  But  1  don't  like  the  color 
of  the  flag.' " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Alain,  simply  ;  "  that  is  enough."  There 
was  a  pause,  the  young  men  walking  on  slowly,  arm  in  arm, 
And  then  there  flashed  across  Graham's  mind  the  recollection 
of  talk  on  another  subject  in  that  very  path.  Here  he  had 
spoken  to  Alain  in  deprecation  of  any  possible  alliance  with 
Isaura  Cicogna,  the  destined  actress  and  public  singer.  His 
cheek  flushed  ;   his  heart  smote  him.     What  1  had  he  spoken 


252  THE  PARISIANS. 

slightingly  of  her — of  herl  What — if  she  became  his  own  wife  ! 
What !  had  he  himself  failed  in  the  respect  which  he  would 
demand  as  her  right  from  the  loftiest  of  his  high-born  kindred  ? 
What,  loo,  would  this  man,  of  fairer  youth  than  himself,  think 
of  that  disparaging  counsel,  when  he  heard  that  the  monitor 
had  won  the  prize  from  which  he  had  warned  another  ?  Would 
it  not  seem  that  he  had  but  spoken  in  the  mean  cunning  dictated 
by  the  fear  of  a  worthier  rival  ?  Stung  by  these  thoughts,  he 
arrested  his  steps,  and,  looking  the  Marquis  full  in  the  face, 
said,  "  Yoii  remind  me  of  one  subject  in  our  talk  many  weeks 
since  ;  it  is  my  duty  to  remind  you  of  another.  At  that  time 
you,  and,  speaking  frankly,  I  myself,  acknowledged  the  charm 
in  the  face  of  a  young  Italian  lady.  I  told  you  then  that,  on 
learning  she  was  intended  for  the  stage,  the  charm  for  me  had 
vanished.  I  said,  bluntly,  that  it  should  vanish  perhaps 
still  more  utterly  for  a  noble  of  your  illustrious  name  ;  you 
remember  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Alain,  hesitatingly,  and  with  a  look  of 
surprise. 

"1  wish  now  to  retract  all  I  said  thereon.  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna  is  not  bent  on  the  profession  for  which  she  was  edu- 
cated. She  would  willingly  renounce  all  idea  of  entering  it. 
The  only  counter-weight  which,  viewed  whether  by  my  reason 
or  my  prejudices,  could  be  placed  in  the  opposite  scale  to  that 
of  the  excellences  which  might  make  any  man  proud  to  win 
her,  is  withdrawn.  I  have  become  acquainted  with  her  since 
the  date  of  our  conversation.  Hers  is  a  mind  which  harmo- 
nizes with  the  loveliness  of  her  face.  In  one  word,  Marquis, 
I  should  deem  myself  honored,  as  well  as  blest,  by  such  a 
bride.  It  was  due  to  her  that  I  should  say  this  ;  it  was  due 
also  to  you,  in  case  you  retain  the  impression  I  sought  in 
ignorance  to  efface.  And  I  am  bound,  as  a  gentleman,  to  obey 
this  twofold  duty,  even  though  in  so  doing  I  bring  upon  my- 
self the  affliction  of  a  candidate  for  the  hand  to  which  I 
would  fain  myself  aspire — a  candidate  with  pretensions  in 
every  way  far  superior  to  my  own." 

An  older  or  a  more  cynical  man  than  Alain  de  Rochebriant 
might  well  have  found  something  suspicious  in  a  confession 
thus  singularly  volunteered  ;  but  the  Marquis  was  himself  so 
loyal  that  he  had  no  doubt  of  the  loyalty  of  Graham. 

"  I  reply  to  you,"  he  said,  "with  a  frankness  which  finds 
an  example  in  your  own.  The  first  fair  face  which  attracted 
my  fancy  since  my  arrival  at  Paris  was  that  of  the  Italian 
demoiselle  of  whom  you  speak  in   terms  of  such   respect.     I 


THE  PARISIANS  253 

do  think  if  I  had  then  been  thrown  into  her  society,  and 
found  her  to  be  such  as  you  no  doubt  truthfully  describe,  that 
fancy  might  have  become  a  ver)'  grave  emotion.  I  was  then 
so  poor,  so  friendless,  so  despondent.  Your  words  of  warning 
impressed  me  at  the  time,  but  less  durably  than  you  might 
suppose;  for  that  very  night  as  I  sat  in  my  solitary  attic  J 
said  to  myself,  '  Why  should  I  shrink,  with  an  obsolete  old 
world  prejudice,  from  what  my  forefathers  would  have  termed 
a  incsalliance  1  What  is  the  value  of  my  birthright  now  ? 
None — worse  than  none.  It  excludes  me  from  all  careers  ; 
my  name  is  but  a  load  that  weighs  me  down.  Why  should  I 
make  that  name  a  curse  as  well  as  a  burden  }  Nothing  is 
left  to  me  but  that  which  is  permitted  to  all  men — wedded 
and  holy  love.  Could  I  win  to  my  heart  the  smile  of  a 
woman  who  brings  me  that  dower,  the  home  of  my  fathers 
would  lose  its  gloom."  And  therefore,  if  at  that  time  1  had 
become  familiarly  acquainted  with  her  who  had  thus  attracted 
my  eye    and   engaged   my   thoughts,   she   might   have   become 

mv  destiny  ;  but  now " 

'  "  But  now  .?  " 
"  Things  have  changed.  I  am  no  longer  poor,  friendless, 
solitary.  I  have  entered  the  world  of  my  equals  as  a  Roche- 
briant;  I  have  made  myself  responsible  for  the  dignity  of 
my  name.  I  could  not  give  that  name  to  one,  however  peer- 
less in  herself,  of  whom  the  world  would  say,  '  But  for  her 
marriage  she  would  have  been  a  singer  on  the  stage!'  I  will 
own  more;  the  fancy  I  conceived  for  the  first  fair  face,  other 
fair  faces  have  dispelled.  At  this  moment,  however,  I  have 
no  thought  of  marriage;  and  having  known  the  anguish  of 
struggle,  the  privations  of  poverty,  I  would  ask  no  woman  to 
share  the  hazard  of  my  return  to  them.  You  might  present 
me,  then,  safely  to  this  beautiful  Italian —  certain  indeed,  that 
I  should  be  her  admirer  ;  equally  certain  that  I  could  not  be- 
come your  rival." 

There  was  something  in  this  speech  that  jarred  upon  Gra- 
ham's sensitive  pride.  But,  on  the  whole  he  felt  relieved 
both  in  honor  and  in  heart.  After  a  few  more  words,  the  two 
young  men  shook  hands  and  parted.  Alain  remonnted  his 
horse.  The  day  was  now  declining.  Graham  hailed  a  vacant 
fiacre^  and  directed  the  driver  to  Isaura's  villa. 


2  54  THE  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ISAURA. 

The  sun  was  sinking  slowly  as  Isaura  sal  at  her  window, 
gazing  dreamily  on  the  rose-hued  clouds  that  made  the  western 
border-land  between  earth  and  heaven.  On  the  table  before 
her  lay  a  few  sheets  of  MS.  hastily  written,  not  yet  reperused. 
That  restless  mind  of  hers  had  left  its  trace  on  the  MS. 

It  is  characteristic  perhaps  of  the  different  genius  of  the 
^exes,  that  woman  takes  to  written  composition  more  impul- 
sively, more  intuitively,  than  man — letter-writing,  to  him  a 
task-work,  is  to  her  a  recreation.  Between  the  age  of  sixteen 
and  the  date  of  marriage,  six  well-educated  clever  girls  out  of 
ten  keep  a  journal ;  and  one  well-educated  man  in  ten  thou- 
sand does.  So,  without  serious  and  settled  intention  of  be- 
coming an  author,  how  naturally  a  girl  of  ardent  feeling  and 
vivid  fancy  seeks  in  poetry  or  romance  a  confessional — an  out- 
pouring of  thought  and  sentiment,  which  are  mysteries  to  her- 
self till  she  has  given  them  words — and  which,  frankly  re- 
vealed on  the  page,  she  would  not,  perhaps  could  not,  utter 
orally  to  a  living  ear  ! 

During  the  last  few  days,  the  desire  to  create  in  the  realm 
of  fable  beings  constructed  by  her  own  breath,  spiritualized 
by  her  own  soul,  had  grown  irresistibly  upon  this  fair  child  of 
song.  In  fact,  when  Graham's  words  had  decided  the  renun- 
ciation of  her  destined  career,  her  instinctive  yearnings  for  the 
utterance  of  those  sentiments  or  thoughts  which  can  only  find 
expression  in  some  form  of  art,  denied  the  one  vent,  irresisti- 
bly impelled  her  to  the  other.  And  in  this  impulse  she  was 
confirmed  by  the  thought  that  here  at  least  there  was  nothing 
which  her  English  friend  could  disapprove — none  of  the  jjerils 
that  beset  the  actress.  Here  it  seemed  as  if,  could  she  but 
succeed,  her  fame  would  be  grateful  to  the  jjride  of  all  who 
loved  her.  Here  was  a  career  ennobled  by  many  a  woman, 
and  side  by  side  in  rivalry  with  renowned  men.  To  her  it 
seemed  that,  could  she  in  this  achieve  an  honored  name,  that 
name  took  its  place  at  once  amid  the  higher  ranks  of  the  social 


THE  PARISIANS.  255 

world,  and  in  itself  brought  a  priceless  dowry  and  a  starry 
crown.  It  was,  however,  not  till  after  the  visit  to  Enghien  that 
this  ambition  took  practical  life  and  form. 

One  evening  after  her  return  to  Paris,  by  an  effort  so  in- 
voluntary that  it  seemed  to  her  110  effort,  she  had  commenced 
a    tale — without    plan — without   method — without    knowing  in 
one  page  what  would  fill  the  next.     Her  slight  fingers  hurried 
on  as  if.  like  the  pretended  spirit  manifestations,   impelled  by 
an  invisible  agency  without  the  pale  of  the  world.     She  was  in- 
toxicated by  the  mere  joy  of  inventing  ideal   images.     In  her 
own  special  art  an  elaborate  artist,  here  she  had  no  thought  of 
art ;  if  art  was  in  her  work,   it  sprang  unconsciously  from  the 
harmony  between  herself  and   her   subject — as   it  is,  perhaps, 
with  the  early  soarings  of  the   genuine   lyric  poets,  in   contrast 
to  the  dramatic.  For  the  true  lyric  poet  is  intensely  personal,  in- 
tensely subjective.  It  is  himself  that  he  expresses— that  he  repre- 
sents— and  he  almost  ceases  to  be  lyrical  when  he   seeks  to  go 
out  of  his  own  existence  into  that  of  others  with  whom  he  has  no 
sympathy,  no  rapport.     This  tale  was  vivid  with  genius  as  yet  un- 
tutored— genius  in  its  morning  freshness,  full  of  beauties,  full  of 
faults.     Isaura  distinguished  not  the  faults  from  the  beauties. 
She  felt  only  a  vague  persuasion  that  there  was  a  something 
higher  and  brighter — a  something  more  true  to  her  own  idiosyn- 
crasy— than  could  be  achieved  by  the  art  that  "sings  other  peo- 
ple's words  to  other  people's  music."     From  the  work  thus  com- 
menced she  had  now  paused.     And  it  seemed  to  her  fancies 
that  between  her  inner  self  and  the  scene  without,  whether  in  the 
skies  and  air  and  sunset,  or  in  the  abodes  of  men  stretching  far 
and  near  till  lost  amid  the  roofs  and  domes  of  the  great  city,  she 
had  fixed  and  riveted  the  link  of  a  sympathy  hitherto  fluctuating, 
unsubstantial,  evanescent,  undefined.     Absorbed  in  her  reverie 
she  did  not  notice  the  deepening  of  the  short  twilight,  till  the 
servant  entering  drew  the  curtains  between  her  and  the  world 
without,  and  placed  the  lamp  on  the  table  beside  her.     Then 
5he  turned  away  with  a  restless  sigh,  her  eyes  fell  on  the  MS., 
but  the  charm  of  it  was  gone.     A  sentiment  of  distrust  in  its 
worth  had  crept  mto  her  thoughts,  unconsciously  to  herself, 
and  the  page  open  before    her   at  an  uncompleted  sentence 
seemed  unwelcome  and  wearisome  as  a  copy-book  is  to  a  child 
condemned  to  relinquish  a  fairy-tale  half  told  and  apply  him- 
self to  a  task  half  done.     She  fell  again   into   a  reverie,  when, 
starting  as  from  a  dream,  she  heard  herself  addressed  by  name, 
and,  turning  round,  saw  Savarin   and  Gustave  Eameau  in  the 
room. 


256  THE  rARISIAAS. 

"We  are  come,  Signorina,"  said  Savarin,  "to  announce  to 
you  a  piece  of  news,  and  to  hazard  a  petition.  'I'he  news  is 
this  :  my  young  friend  liere  has  found  a  M;ucenas  who  has  the 
good  taste  so  to  admire  his  lucubrations  under  the  no)ii  de 
plume  of  Alphonse  de  Valcour  as  to  volunteer  the  expenses  for 
starting  a  new  journal,  of  which  Gustave  Rameau  is  to  be  edi- 
lor-in-chief ;  and  1  have  promised  to  assist  him  as  contributor 
for  the  tirst  two  months.  I  have  given  him  notes  of  introduc- 
tion to  certain  other  feiiilktoftistes  and  critics  whom  he  has  on 
his  list.  But  all  put  together  would  not  serve  to  float  the  jour- 
nal like  a  short  toman  from  Madam  de  Grantmesnil.  Know- 
ing your  intimacy  with  that  eminent  artist,  I  venture  to  back 
Rameau's  supplication  that  you  would  exert  your  influence  on 
his  behalf.     As  to  the  /lonoraires,  she  has  but  to  name  them." 

"  Carte  b/anche,"  cried  Rameau,  eagerly. 

"You  know  Eulalie  too  well,  M.  Savarin,"  answ^ered  Isaura, 
with  a  smile  half  reproachful,  "  to  suppose  that  she  is  a  mer- 
cenary in  letters  and  sells  her  services  to  the  best  bidder." 

"Bah,  bc/le  efi/atife /"  said  Savarin,  with  his  gay  light  laugh. 
"  Business  is  business,  and  books  as  well  as  razors  are  made  to 
sell.  But,  of  course,  a  proper  prospectus  of  the  journal  must 
accom.pany  your  request  to  write  in  it.  Meanwhile,  Rameau 
will  explain  to  you,  as  he  has  done  to  me,  that  the  journal  in 
question  is  designed  for  circulation  among  readers  of  haute 
classe :  it  is  to  be  pleasant  and  airy,  full  of  bans  mots  znd  anec- 
dote ;  witty,  but  not  ill-natured.  Politics  to  be  liberal,  of 
course,  but  of  elegant  admixture — champagne  and  seltzer- 
water.  In  fact,  however,  I  suspect  that  the  politics  will  be  a 
very  inconsiderable  feature  in  this  organ  of  fine  arts  and  man- 
ners ;  some  amateur  scribbler  in  the  '  beau  monde '  will  supply 
them.  For  the  rest,  if  my  introductory  letters  are  successful. 
Madame  de  Grantmesnil  will  not  be  in  bad  company." 

"  You  will  write  to  Madame  de  Grantmesnil .? "  asked 
Rameau,  pleading. 

"  Certainly  I  will,  as  soon " 

"  As  soon  as  you  have  the  prospectus,  and  the  names  of  the 
coilaborcieurs,"  interrupted  Rameau.  "  I  hope  to  send  you 
these  in  a  very  few  days." 

While  Rameau  was  thus  speaking,  Savarin  had  seated  him- 
self by  the  table,  and  his  eye  mechanically  resting  on  the  open 
MS.  lighted  by  chance  upon  a  sentence — an  aphorism — em- 
bodying a  very  delicate  sentiment  in  very  felicitous  diction. 
One  of  those  choice  condensations  of  thought,  suggesting  so 
.much  more  than  is  said,  which  are  never  found  in  mediocre 


THE  PARISIANS.  257 

writers,  and,  rare  even  in  the  best,  come  upon  us  like  tmths 
seized  by  surprise. 

"■  Farblcu  f"  exclaimed  Savarin,  in  the  impulse  of  genuine 
admiration,  "  but  this  is  beautiful  ;  what  is  more,  it  is  original," 
— and  he  read  the  words  aloud.  Blushing  with  shame  and 
resentment,  Isaura  turned  and  hastily  placed  her  hand  on  the 
MS. 

"Pardon,"  said  Savarin,  humbly;  "  I  confess  my  sin,  but 
it  was  so  unpremediated  that  it  does  not  merit  a  severe  pen- 
ance. Do  not  look  at  me  so  reproachfully.  We  all  know  that 
young  ladies  keep  commonplace-books  in  which  they  enter 
passages  that  strike  them  i»  the  works  they  read.  And  you 
have  but  shown  an  exquisite  taste  in  selecting  this  gern.  Do 
tell  me  where  you  found  it.     It  is  somewhere  in  Lamartine  ? " 

"  No,"  answered  Isaura,  half  in  audibly,  and  with  an  effort 
to  withdraw  the  paper.  Savarin  gently  detained  her  hand, 
and,  looking  earnestly  into  her  tell-tale  face,  divined  her 
secret. 

"  It  is  your  own,  Signorina  !  Accept  the  congratulations 
of  a  very  practised  and  somewhat  fastidious  critic.  If  the  rest 
of  what  you  write  resembles  this  sentence,  contribute  to 
Ranieau's  journal,  and  I  answer  for  its  success." 

Rameau  approached,  half  incredulous,  half  envious. 

"  My  dear  child,"  resumed  Savarin,  drawing  away  the  MS. 
from  Isaura's  coy,  reluctant  clasp,  "  do  permit  me  to  cast  a 
glance  over  these  papers.  For  what  I  yet  know,  there  may 
be  here  more  promise  of  fame  than  even  you  could  gain  as  a 
singer." 

The  electric  chord  in  Isaura's  heart  was  touched.  Who 
cannot  conceive  what  the  young  writer  feels,  especially  the 
young  woman-writer,  when  hearing  the  first  cheery  note  of 
praise  from  the  lips  of  a  writer  of  established  fame  ? 

"  Nav,  this  cannot  be  worth  your  reading,"  said  Isaura, 
falteringly;  "  I  have  never  written  anything  of  the  kind  before, 
and  this  is  a  riddle  to  me.  I  know  not,"  she  added,  with  a 
sweet  low  laugh,  "why  I  began,  nor  how  I  should  end  it." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  said  Savarin;  and  he  took  the  MS., 
withdrew  to  a  recess  by  the  farther  window,  and  seated  himself 
there,  reading  silently  and  quickly,  but  now  and  then  with  a 
brief  pause  of  reflection. 

Rameau  placed  himself  beside  Isaura  on  the  divan,  and 
began  talking  with  her  earnestly — earnestly,  for  it  was  about 
himself  and  his  aspiring  hopes.  Isaura,  on  the  other  hand, 
mors  woman-like     than    author-like,   ashamed   even  to  seem 


258  THE  PARISIANS. 

absorbed  in  herself  and  her  hopes,  and  with  her  back  turned, 
in  the  instinct  of  that  shame,  against  the  reader  of  her  MS., — 
Isaura  listened  and  sought  to  interest  herself  solely  in  the 
young  fellow-author.  Seeking  to  do  so,  she  succeeded  genuinely, 
for  ready  sympathy  was  a  prevalent  characteristic  of  her 
nature. 

"  Oh,'-'  said  Rameau,  "  I  am  at  the  turning-point  of  my 
life.  Ever  since  boyhood  I  have  been  haunted  with  the  words 
of  Andre'  Che'nier  on  the  morning  he  was  led  to  the  scaffold  • 
'  And  yet  there  was  something  here,'  striking  his  forehead. 
Yes,  I,  poor,  low-born,  launching  myself  headlong  in  the  chase 
of  a  name  ;  I,  underrated,  uncomprehended,  indebted  even  for 
a  hearing  to  the  patronage  of  an  amiable  trifier  like  Savarin, 
ranked  by  petty  rivals  in  a  grade  below  themselves, — I  now 
see  before  me,  suddenly,  abruptly  presented,  the  expanding 
gates  into  fame  and  fortune.     Assist  me,  you  !  " 

"  But  how  ?"  said  Isaura,  already  forgetting  her  MS.;  and 
certainly  Rameau  did  not  refer  to  that. 

"  How  !  "  echoed  Rameau.  "  How  !  But  do  you  not  see 
— or,  at  least,  do  you  not  conjecture — this  journal  of  which 
Savarin  speaks  contains  my  present  and  my  future  ?  Present 
independence,  opening  to  fortune  and  renown.  Ay, — and  who 
shall  say?  renown  beyond  that  of  the  mere  writer.  Behind 
the  gaudy  scaffolding  of  this  rickety  Empire,  a  new  social 
edifice  unperceived  arises ;  and  in  that  edifice  the  halls  of 
State  shall  be  given  to  the  men  who  help  obscurely  to  build  it 
— to  men  like  me."  Here,  drawing  her  hand  into  his  own, 
fixing  on  her  the  most  imploring  gaze  of  his  dark  persuasive 
eyes,  and  utterly  unconscious  of  bathos  in  his  adjuration,  he 
added — "  Plead  for  me  with  your  whole  mind  and  heart ;  use 
your  uttermost  influence  with  the  illustrious  writer  whose  pen 
can  assure  the  fates  of  my  journal." 

Here  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  following  the  servant, 
who  announced  unintelligibly  his  name,  there  entered  Graham 
Vane. 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  Englishman  halted  at  the  threshold.  His  eye,  passing 
rapidly  over  the  figure  of  Savarin  reading  in  the  window  niche, 
rested  upon  Rameau  and  Isaura  seated  on  the  same  divan,  he 
with  her  hand  clasped  in  both  his  own,  and  bending  his  face 
towards  hers  so  closely  that  a  loose  tress  of  her  hair  seemed 
to  touch  his  forehead. 


THE  PARISIANS.  259 

Tlie  Englishman  halted,  and  no  revolution  which  changes 
the  habitudes  and  forms  of  States  was  ever  so  sudden  as  that, 
which  passed  without  a  word  in  the  depths  of  his  unconjectured 
heart.  The  heart  has  no  history  which  philosophers  can  recog- 
nize. An  ord'nary  political  observer,  contemplating  the  condi- 
tion of  a  nation,  may  ver}^  safely  tell  us  what  effects  must 
follow  the  causes  patent  to  his  eyes.  But  the  wisest  and  most 
far-seeing  sage,  looking  at  a  man  at  one  o'  clock,  cannot  tell 
us  what  revulsions  of  his  whole  being  may  be  made  ere  the 
clock  strike  two. 

As  Isaura  rose  to  greet  her  visitor,  Savarin  came  from  the 
window  niche,  the  MS.  in  his  hand. 

"  Son  of  peffidious  Albion,"  said  Savarin,  gayly,  "  we  feared 
you  had  deserted  the  French  alliance.  Welcome  back  to  Paris 
and  the  entente  cor  dialed 

"  Would  I  could  stay  to  enjoy  such  welcome.  But  I  must 
again  quit  Paris" 

"  Soon  to  return,  fCest-ce pas  ?  Paris  is  an  irresistible  magnet 
to  les  beaux  esprits.  A  propos  of  beaux  esptits,  be  sure  to  leave 
orders  with  your  bookseller,  if  you  have  one,  to  enter  your  name 
as  subscriber  to  a  new  journal." 

"  Certainly,  if  M.  Savarin  recommends  it." 

"  He  recommends  it  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  he  writes  in  it,' 
said  Rameau. 

"  A  sufficient  guarantee  for  its  excellence.  What  is  the 
name  of  the  journal  ?  " 

"  Not  yet  thought  of,"  answered  Savarin.  "  Babes  must 
be  born  before  they  are  christened  ;  but  it  will  be  instruction 
enough  to  your  bookseller  to  order  the  new  journal  to  be  edited 
by  Gustave  Rameau." 

Bowing  ceremoniously  to  the  editor  in  prospect,  Graham 
said,  half  ironically,  "  May  I  hope  that  in  the  department  of 
criticism  you  will  not  be  too  hard  upon  poor  Tasso  }  " 

"  Never  fear  ;  the  Signorina,  who  adores  Tasso,  will  take 
him  under  her  special  protection,"  said  Savarin,  interrupting 
Rameau's  sullen  and  embarrassed  reply. 

Graham's  brow  slightly  contracted.  "  Mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  "  is  then  to  be  united  in  the  conduct  of  this  journal  with 
M.  Gnstave  Rameau  1  " 

"  No,  ndeed  !  "  said  Isaura,  somewhat  frightened  at  the 
idea. 

"  But  I  hope,"  said  Savarin,  "  that  the  Signorina  may  be 
come  a  contributor  too  important  for  an  editor  to  offend  by 
insulting  her  favorites,  Tasso  included.  Rameau  and  I  came 
hither  to  entreat  her  influence  with  her  intimate  and  illustrious 


26c  THE  PARISIANS. 

friend,  Madame  de  Grantmesnil,  to  insure  the  success  of  our 
undertaking  by  sanctioning  the  announcement  of  her  name  as 
a  contributor." 

''  Upon  social  questions — such  as  the-  law  of  marriage  ?  " 
said  Graham,  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  which  concealed  the  quiver 
of  his  lip  and  the  pain  in  his  voice. 

"  Nay,"  answering  Savarin,  "  our  journal  will  be  too  sportive, 
I  hope,  for  matters  so  profound.  We  would  rather  have 
Madame  de  Grantmesnil's  aid  in  some  short  ro?nait,  which 
will  charm  the  fancy  of  all  and  offend  the  opinions  of  none. 
But  since  I  came  into  the  room  I  care  less  for  the  Signorina's 
influence  with  the  great  authoress,"  and  he  glanced  significantly 
at  the  MS. 

"  How  so  ?  "  asked  Graham,  his  eye  following  the  glance. 

"  If  the  writer  of  this  MS.  will  conclude  what  she  has  begun, 
we  shall  be  independent  of  Madame  de  Grantmesnil,  " 

"  Fie  !"  cried  Isaura  impulsively,  her  face  and  neck  bathed 
in  blushes — "fie  !  such  words  are  mockery." 

Graham  gazed  at  her  intently,  and  then  turned  his  eyes  on 
Savarin.  He  guessed  aright  the  truth.  "  Mademoiselle  then 
is  an  author  .? — In  the  style  of  her  friend  Madame  de  Grant- 
mesnil V 

"  Bah  !"  said  Savarin,  "  I  should  indeed  be  guilty  of  mockery 
if  I  p-^id  the  Signorina  so  false  a  compliment  as  to  say  that  in 
a  firs*^  effort  she  attained  to  the  style  of  one  of  the  most  finished 
sovereigns  of  language  that  has  ever  swa3'ed  the  literature  of 
France.  When  I  say,  '  Give  us  this  tale  completed,  and  I  shall 
be  consoled  if  the  journal  does  not  gain  the  aid  of  Madame  de 
Grantmesnil,'  I  mean  that  in  these  pages  there  is  that  nameless 
charm  of  freshness  and  novelty  which  compensates  for  many 
faults  never  committed  by  a  practised  pen  like  Madame  de 
Grantmesnil's.  My  dear  young  lady,  go  on  with  this  story — 
finish  it.  When  finished,  do  not  disdain  any  suggestions  I  may 
offer  in  the  way  of  correction.  And  I  will  venture  to  predict  to 
you  so  brilliant  a  career  as  author,  that  you  will  not  regret, 
should  you  resign  for  that  career  the  bravos  you  could  command 
as  actress  and  singer."  The  Englishman  pressed  his  hand  con- 
vulsively to  his  heart  as  if  smitten  by  a  sudden  spasm.  But  as 
his  eyes  rested  on  Isaura's  face,  which  had  become  radiant  with 
the  enthuastic  delight  of  genius  when  the  path  it  would  select 
opens  before  it  as  if  by  a  flash  from  heaven,  whatever  of  jealous 
irritation,  whatever  of  selfish  pain  he  might  before  have  felt  was 
gone,  merged  into  a  sentiment  of  unutterable  sadness  and  com- 
passion. Practical  man  as  he  was,  he  knew  so  well  all  the 
dangers,  all  the  snares,  all  the  sorrows,  all  the  scandals  menacing 


THE  PARISIANS.  261 

name  and  fame,  that  in  the  world  of  Paris  must  beset  the  father- 
less girl  who,  not  less  in  authorship  than  on  the  stage,  leaves  the 
safeguard  of  private  live  forever  behind  her, — who  becomes  a 
prey  to  the  tongues  of  the  public.  At  Paris  how  slender  is  the 
line  that  divides  the  authoress  from  the  Bohetnicnne!  He  sank 
into  his  chair  silently,  and  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  as  if 
to  shut  out  a  vision  of  the  future. 

Isaura,  in  her  excitement  did  not  notice  the  effect  on  her 
English  visitor.  She  could  not  have  divined  such  an  effect  as 
possible.  On  the  contrary,  even  subordinate  to  her  joy  at  the 
thought  that  she  had  not  mistaken  the  instincts  which  led  her  to 
a  nobler  vocation  than  that  of  the  singer,  that  the  cage-bar  was 
opened,  and  space  bathed  in  sunshine  was  inviting  the  new-felt 
wings, — subordinate  even  to  that  joy  was  a  joy  more  wholly, 
more  simply,  woman's.  "  If,"  thought  she  in  this  joy,  "if  this 
be  true  my  proud  ambition  is  realized  ;  all  disparities  of  worth 
and  fortune  are  annulled  between  me  and  him  to  whom  I  would 
bring  no  shame  of  mesalliance  !"     Poor  dreamer,  poor  child  ! 

"  You  will  let  me  see  what  you  have  written,"  said  Rameau, 
somewhat  imperiously,  in  the  sharp  voice  habitual  to  him,  and 
which  pierced  Graham's  ear  like  a  splinter  of  glass. 

"  No — not  now  :  when  finished." 

"  You  will  finish  it .?" 

"  Oh,  yes  :  how  can  I  help  it  after  such  encouragement  ?" 
She  held  out  her  hand  to  Savarin,  who  kissed  it  gallantly  ;  then 
her  eyes  intuitively  sought  Graham's.  By  that  time  he  had 
gained  his  self-possession  :  he  met  her  look  tranquilly  and  with 
a  smile  ;  but  the  smile  chilled  her — she  knew  not  why. 

The  conversation  then  passed  upon  books  and  authors  of 
the  day,  and  was  chiefly  supported  by  the  satirical  pleasantries 
of  Savarin,  who  was  in  high  good  spirits. 

Graham,  who,  as  we  know,  had  come  with  the  hope  of  seeing 
Isaura  alone,  and  with  the  intention  of  uttering  words  which, 
however  guarded,  might  yet  in  absence  serve  as  links  of  union, 
now  no  longer  coveted  that  interview,  no  longer  meditated  those 
words.     He  soon  rose  to  depart. 

"  Will  you  dine  with  me  to-morrow  ?"  asked  Savarin.  "  Per- 
haps I  may  induce  the  Signorina  and  Rameau  to  offer  you  the 
temptation  of  meeting  them." 

"  By  to-morrow  I  shall  be  leagues  away." 

Isaura's  heart  sank.  This  time  the  MS.  was  fairly  for- 
gotten. 

"  You  never  said  you  were  going  so  soon,"  cried  Savarin. 
"  When  do  you  come  back,  vile  deserter  ?" 

"  I  cannot  even  guess.     Monsieur  Rameau,  count  me  among 


2G2  TlfK  PARISIANS. 

your  subscribers.  Mademoiselle,  my  best  regards  to  Signora 
Venosta.  When  I  see  you  again,  no  doubt  you  will  ha\'e  be- 
come famous." 

Isaura  here  could  not  control  herself.  She  rose  impulsively, 
and  approached  him,  holding  out  her  hand  and  attempting  to 
smile. 

"  But  not  famous  in  the  way  that  you  warned  me  from," 
she  said,  in  whispered  tones.  "  You  are  friends  with  me  still  ?" 
It  was  like  the  piteous  wail  of  a  child  seeking  to  make  it  up 
with  one  who  wants  to  quarrel,  the  child  knows  not  why. 

Graham  was  moved,  but  what  could  he  say  ?  Could  he  have 
the  right  to  warn  her  from  this  profession  also  t — forbid  all 
desires,  all  roads  of  fame  to  this  brilliant  aspirant.?  Even  a 
declared  and  accepted  lover  might  well  have  deemed  that  that 
would  be  to  ask  too  much.  He  replied,  "  Yes  always  a  friend, 
if  you  could  ever  need  one."  Her  hand  slid  from  his,  and  she 
turned  away,  wounded  to  the  quick. 

"  Have  you  your  coupe  at  the  door  .?"  asked  Savarin 

"  Simply  -A.  fiacre." 

"  And  are  you  going  back  at  once  to  Paris  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Will  you  kindly  drop  me  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  ?" 

"  Charmed  to  be  of  use." 


CHAPTER  XI. 


^  As  the  fi<ure  bore  to  Paris  Savarin  and  Graham,  the  former 
said,  "  I  cannot  conceive  what  rich  simpleton  could  entertain  so 
high  an  opinion  of  Gustave  Rameau  as  to  select  a  man  so 
young,  and  of  reputation,  though  promising,  so  undecided,  for 
an  enterprise  which  requires  such  a  degree  of  tact  and  judg- 
ment as  the  conduct  of  a  new  journal,  and  a  journal,  too,  wljch 
is  to  address  itself  to  the  i?eau  monde.  However,  it  is  not  for 
me  to  criticise  a  selection  which  brings  a  godsend  to  myself." 

"To  yourself?  You  jest ;  you  have  a  journal  of  your  own. 
It  can  only  be  through  an  excess  of  good  nature  that  you  lend 
your  name  and  pen  to  M.  Gustave  Rameau." 

"  My  good  nature  does  not  go  to  that  extent.  It  is  Rameau 
who  confers  a  service  upon  me.  Pesie !  man  chct,  we  French 
authors  have  not  the  rents  of  you  rich  English  milords.  And 
though  I  am  the  most  economical  of  our  tribe,  yet  that  journal 
of  mine  Iias  fnilf^d  me  of  Inte  ;  and  tliis  morninir   I  did   not  ex- 


TIFE  PARISIANS.  263 

actly  see  how  I  was  to  repay  a  sum  I  had  been  obliged  to  borrow 
of  a  money-lender — for  I  am  too  proud  to  borrow  of  friends, 
and  too  sagacious  to  borrow  of  publisliers — when  in  walks  ce 
cher petit  Gustave  with  an  offer  for  a  few  trifles  towards  starting 
this  new-born  journal,  which  makes  a  new  man  of  me.  Now  I 
am  in  the  undertaking,  my  amour  propre  and  my  reputation  are 
concerned  in  its  success,  and  I  shall  take  care  that  collahorateun 
of  whose  company  I  am  not  ashamed  are  in  the  same  boat. 
But  the  charming  young  girl,  Isaura  !  What  an  enigma  the 
gift  of  the  pen  is  !  No  one  can  ever  guess  who  has  it  until 
tried." 

"  The  young  lady's  MS,  then,  really  merits  the  praise  you 
bestowed  on  it  ?  " 

"  Much  more  praise,  though  a  great  deal  of  blame,  which  I 
did  not  bestow.  For,  in  a  first  work  faults  insure  success  as 
much  as  beauties.  Anything  better  than  tame  correctness. 
Yes,  her  first  work,  to  judge  by  what  is  written,  must  make  a  hit 
— a  great  hit.  And  that  will  decide  her  career,  A  singer,  an 
actress,  may  retire,  often  does,  when  she  marries  an  author, 
liut  once  an  author  always  an  author." 

"  Ah  !  is  it  so  ?  If  you  had  a  beloved  daughter,  S.-warin, 
would  you  enconragevher  to  be  an  author  ?  " 

"  Frankly,  no — principally  because  in  that  case  the  chances 
are  that  she  would  marry  an  author  ;  and  French  authors,  at 
least  in  the  imaginative  school,  make  very  uncomfortable  hus- 
bands." 

"  Ah  you  think  the  Signorina  will  marry  one  of  those  uncom- 
lortable  husbands — M.  Rameau,  perhaps  .''  " 

"  Rameau  !  Hein!  nothing  more  likely:  That  beautiful 
face  of  his  has  its  fascination.  And,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my  wife, 
who  is  a  striking  illustration  of  the  truth  that  what  woman 
wills  Heaven  wills,  is  bent  upon  the  improvement  in  Gustave's 
moral  life  which  she  thinks  a  union  with  Madomoiselle  Cicogna 
would  achieve.  At  all  events,  the  fair  Italian  would  have  in 
Rameau  a  husband  who  would  not  suffer  her  to  bury  her  talerXs 
mider  a  bushel.  If  she  succeeds  as  a  writer  (by  succeeding  I 
mean  making  money),  he  will  see  that  her  ink-bottle  is  nevei 
empty  ;  if  she  don't  succeed  as  a  writer,  he  will  take  care  that 
the  world  shall  gain  an  actress  or  a  singer.  For  Gustave 
Rameau  has  a  great  taste  for  luxury  and  show;  and  whatever 
his  wife  can  make  I  will  venture  to  say  he  will  manage  to  spend." 

"  I  thought  you  had  an  esteem  and  regard  for  Made- 
moiselle Cicogna.  It  is  Madame,  your  wife,  I  suppose,  who 
has  a  grudge  against  her  ?  " 


264  ^^^^  PARISIANS. 

"  On  the  contrary,  my  wife  idolizes  her," 

"  Savages  sacrifice  to  their  idols  the  things  they  deem  of 
value.  Civilized  Parisians  sacrifice  their  idols  themselves — and 
to  a  thing  that  is  worthless." 

"  Rameau  is  not  worthless  ;  he  has  beauty,  and  youth,  and 
talent.  My  wife  thinks  more  highly  of  him  than  I  do  but 
I  must  respect  a  man  who  has  found  admirers  so  sincere  as  to 
set  him  up  in  a  journal  and  give  him  carte  blanche  for  terms 
to  coi  tributors.  I  know  of  no  man  in  Paris  more  valuable 
to  me,  His  worth  to  me  this  morning  is  thirty  thousand 
francs.  I  own  I  do  not  think  him  likely  to  be  a  very  safe 
husband  ;  but  then  French  female  authors  and  artists  seldom 
take  any  husbands  except  upon  short  leases.  There  are  no 
vulgar  connubial  prejudices  in  the  pure  atmosphere  of  art. 
Women  of  genius,  like  Madame  de  Grantmesnil,  and  perhaps 
like  our  charming  young  friend,  resemble  canary-birds — to 
sing  their  best  you  must  separate  them  from  their  mates." 

The  Englishman  suppressed  a  groan,  and  turned  the  con- 
versation. 

When  he  had  set  down  his  lively  companion,  Vane  dismissed 
\v\i,  fiacre^  and  walked  to  his  lodgings  musingly. 

"  No,"  he  said,  inly  ;  "  I  must  wrench  myself  from  the 
very  memory  of  that  haunting  face, — the  friend  and  pu]Dil  of 
Madame  de  Grantmesnil,  the  associate  of  Gustave  Rameau, 
the  rival  of  Julie  Caumartin,  the  aspirant  to  that  pure  atmos- 
phere of  art  in  which  there  are  no  vulgar  connubial  prejudices  ! 
Could  I — whether  I  be  rich  or  poor — see  in  her  the  ideal  of  an 
English  wife  ?  As  it  is — as  it  is — with  this  mvsterv  which 
oppresses  me,  which,  till  solved,  leaves  my  own  career  insolu- 
ble,— as  it  is,  how  fortunate  that  I  did  not  find  her  alone — 
did  not  utter  the  words  that  would  fain  have  leapt  from  my 
heart — did  not  say,  "  1  may  not  be  the  rich  man  I  seem,  but 
in  that  case  I  shall  be  yet  more  ambitious,  because  struggle 
and  labor  are  the  sinews  of  ambition  !  Should  I  be  rich,  will 
you  adorn  my  station  !  should  I  be  poor,  wiP  you  enrich 
povertv  with  your  smile  ?  And  can  you,  in  either  case,  forego 
— really,  painlessly  forego,  as  you  led  m"e  to  hope — the  pride  in 
your  own  art  ?'  My  ambition  were  killed  did  I  marry  an 
actress,  a  singer.  Better  that  than  the  hungerer  after  excite- 
ments which  are  never  allayed,  the  struggler  in  a  career  which 
admits  of  no  retirement — the  woman  to  whom  marriage  is  no 
goal — who  remains  to  the  last  the  property  of  the  public,  and 
glories  to  dwell  in  a  house  of  glass  into  which  every  bystander 
has  a  right  to  peer.  Is  this  the  ideal  of  an  Englishman's  wife 
and  home  J*     No — no  ! — woe  is  me,  no  !  " 


THR  PAFISIAA^S. 


265 


BOOK  VI. 


CHAPTER  I. 


A  FEW  wecKS  after  the  date  of  the  preceding  chapter  a  gay 
y  arty  of  men  were  assembled  at  supper  m  one  of  the  private 
salons  of  the  Maison  Dorce.  The  supper  was  given  by  Frederic 
Lemercier,  and  the  guests  were,  though  in  various  ways,  more 
or  less  distinguished.  Rank  and  fashion  were  not  unworthily 
represented  by  Alain  de  Rochebriant  and  Enguerrand  de 
Vandemar,  by  whose  supremacy  as  "  lion  "  Frederic  still  felt 
rather  humbled,  though  Alain  had  contrived  to  bring  them  fam- 
iliarly together.  Art,  Literature,  and  the  Bourse  had  also  their 
representatives — in  Henri  Bernard,  a  rising  young  portrait- 
painter,  whom  the  Emperor  honored  with  his  patronage,  the 
Vicomte  de  Breze,  and  M.  Savarin.  Science  was  not  altogeth- 
er forgotten,  but  contributed  its  agreeable  delegate  in  the 
person  of  the  eminent  physician  to  whom  we  have  been  before 
introduced — Dr.  Bacourt.  Doctors  in  Paris  are  not  so  serious 
as  they  mostly  are  in  London  ;  and  Bacourt,  a  pleasant* 
philosopher  of  the  school  of  Aristippus,  was  no  unfrequent  or 
ungenial  guest  at  any  banquet  in  which  the  Graces  relaxed  their 
zones.  Martial  glory  was  also  represented  at  the  social  gather- 
ing by  a  warrior  bronzed  and  decorated,  lately  arrived  from 
Algiers,  on  which  arid  soil  he  had  achieved  many  laurels  and 
the  rank  of  Colonel.  Finance  contributed  Duplessis.  Well  it 
might  ;  for  Duplessis  had  just  assisted  the  host  to  a  splendid 
coup  at  the  Bourse. 

"  Ah,  cher  M.  Savarin,"  says  Enguerrand  de  Vandemar, 
whose  patrician  blood  is  so  pure  from  revolutionary  taint  that 
he  is  always  instinctively  polite,  "  what  a  masterpiece  in  its 
way  is  that  little  paper  of  yours  in  the  '  Sens  Commun,\\Y>ox\  the 
connection  between  the  national  character  and  the  national 
diet  !  so  genuinely  witty  !  for  wit  is  but  truth  made  amusing." 

"  You  flatter  me,"  replied  Savarin,  modestly  ;  "  but  I  own 


266  THE  FARISTAiVS. 

1  do  think  there  is  a  smattering  of  philosophy  in  tliat  trifle. 
Perhaps,  however,  the  character  of  a  people  depends  more  on 
its  drinks  than  its  food.  The  wines  of  Italy — heady,  irritable, 
ruinous  to  the  digestion — contribute  to  the  character  which 
belongs  to  active  brains  and  disordered  livers.  The  Italians 
conceive  great  plans,  but  they  cannot  digest  them.  The  En- 
glish common  people  drink  beer,  and  the  beerish  character  is 
stolid,  rude,  but  stubborn  and  enduring.  The  English  middle 
class  imbibe  port  and  sherry  ;  and  with  these  strong  potations 
their  ideas  become  obfuscated.  Their  character  has  no  live- 
liness ;  amusement  is  not  one  of  their  wants  ;  they  sit  at  home 
after  dinner  and  doze  away  the  fumes  of  their  beverage  in  the 
dulness  of  domesticity.  If  the  English  aristocracy  is  more 
vivacious  and  cosmopolitan,  it  is  thanks  to  the  wines  of  France, 
which  it  is  the  mode  with  them  to  prefer  ;  but  still,  like  all 
plagiarists,  they  are  imitators,  not  inventors — they  borrow  our 
wines  and  copy  our  manners.     The  Germans " 

"  Insolent  barbarians  !"  growled  the  French  Colonel,  twirl- 
ing his  moustache  ;  "  if  the  Emperor  were  not  in  his  dotage, 
their  Sadowa  would  ere  this  have    cost  them  their  Rhine." 

"  The  Germans,"  resumed  Savarin,  unheeding  the  inter- 
ruption, "  drink  acrid  wines,  varied  with  beer,  to  which  last 
their  commonalty  owes  a  quasi  resemblance,  in  stupidity  and 
endurance,  to  the  English  masses.  Acrid  wines  rot  the  teeth  : 
Germans  are  afflicted  with  toothache  from  mfancy.  All 
people  subject  to  toothache  are  sentimental.  Goethe  was  a 
martyr  to  toothache.  Werter  was  written  in  one  of  those 
paroxysms  which  predispose  genius  to  suicide.  But  the 
German  character  is  not  all  toothache  ;  beer  and  t<^othache  step 
in  to  the  relief  of  Rhenish  acridities,  blend  philosophy  with 
sentiment,  and  give  that  patience  in  detail  which  distinguishes 
their  professors  and  their  generals.  Besides,  the  German 
wines  in  themselves  have  other  qualities  than  that  of  acridity. 
Taken  with  sour-crout  and  stewed  prunes,  they  produce  fumes 
of  self-conceit.  A  German  has  little  of  French  vanity  ;  he 
has  Germa*"  self-esteem.  He  extends  the  esteem  of  self  to 
those  arouiid  him  ;  his  home,  his  village,  his  city,  his  coun- 
try— all  belong  to  him.  It  is  a  duty  he  owes  to  himself  to 
defend  them.  Give  him  his  pipe  and  sabre — and,  M.  le 
Colonel,  believe  me  you  will  never  take  the  Rhine  from  him." 

"  P-r-r  !  "  cried  the  Colonel  :  "  but  we  have  had  the  Rhine." 

"  We  did  not  keep  it.  And  I  should  not  say  I  had  a  franc- 
piece  if  I  borrowed  it  from  your  parse  and  had  to  give  it  back 
the  next  day." 


THE  PARISIANS.  267 

Here  there  arose  a  very  general  hubbub  of  voices,  all  raised 
against  M.  Savarin.  Enguerrand,  like  a  man  of  good  ton, 
hastened  to  change  the  conversation. 

"  Let  us  leave  these  poor  wretches  to  their  sour   wines  and 
toothache.     We  drinkers  of  the  champagne,   all  our  own,  have 
only  pity  for   the    rest   of  the   human    race.     This  new  jour 
nal  '  Les  Sens  Commun'  has  a  strange  title,  M.  Savarin." 

"  Yes  ;  '  Le  Sens  Commun'  is  not  common  in  Paris,  where 
we  all  have  too  much  genius  for  a  thing  so  vulgar." 

"  Pray,"  said  the  young  painter,  "  tell  me  what  you  mean 
by  the  title — *  Le  Sens  Comtmin.'     It  is  mysterious." 

"  True,"  said  Savarin  ;  "  it  may  mean  the  Sensus  communis 
of  the  Latin,  or  the  Good  Sense  of  the  English.  The  Latin 
phrase  signifies  the  sense  of  the  common  interest  ;  the  F^ng- 
lish  phrase,  the  sense  which  persons  of  understanding  have  in 
common.  I  suppose  the  inventor  of  our  title  meant  the  latter 
signification." 

"  And  who  was  the  inventor  .?  "  asked  Bacourt. 

"  That  is  a  secret  which  I  do  not  know  myself,"  answered 
Savarin. 

"  I  guess,"  said  Enguerrand,  "  that  it  must  be  the  same 
person  who  writes  the  political  leaders.  They  are  most  re- 
markable ;  for  they  are  so  unlike  the  articles  in  other  journals, 
whether  those  journals  be  the  best  or  worst.  Eor  my  own 
part,  I  trouble  my  head  very  little  about  politics,  and  shrug 
my  shoulders  at  essays  which  reduce  the  government  of  flesh 
and  blood  into  mathematical  problems.  But  these  articles 
seem  to  be  written  by  a  man  of  the  world,  and  as  a  man  of  the 
world  myself,  I  read  them." 

"  But,"  said  the  Vicomte  de  Br^ze,  who  piqued  himself  on 
the  polish  of  his  style,  "  they  are  certainly  not  the  composi- 
tion of  any  eminent  writer.  No  eloquence,  no  sentiment  ; 
though  I  ought  not  to  speak  disparagingly  of  a  fellow-con- 
tributor." 

"  All  that  may  be  very  true,"  said  Savarin,  "  but  M.  En- 
guerrand is  right.  The  papers  are  evidently  the  work  of  a  man 
of  the  world,  and  it  is  for  that  reason  that  they  have  startled 
the  public  and  established  the  success  of  '  Le  Sens  Comniitn^'' 
But  wait  a  week  or  two  longer.  Messieurs,  and  then  tell  me  what 
you  think  of  a  new  roman,  by  a  new  writer,  which  we  shall 
announce  in  our  impression  to-morrow.  I  shall  be  disappointe  d 
indeed  if  that  does  not  charm  you.  No  lack  of  eloquence  and 
sentiment  there." 

"  I  am  rather  tired  of  eloquence  and  sentiment,"  said   F^n- 


268  THE  PARISIANS. 

guerrand.  "  Your  editor,  Gustave  Rameau,  sickens  me  of 
them,  with  his  '  Starlit  Meditations  in  the  Streets  of  Paris,' 
morbid  imitations  of  Heine's  enigmatical  '  Evening  Songs.'  Your 
journal  would  be  perfect  if  you  could  suppress  the  editor." 

"  Suppress  Gustave  Rameau  !  "  cried  Bernard  the  painter ; 
"  I  adore  his  poems,  full  of  heart  for  poor  suffering  humanity." 

"  Suffering  humanity  so  far  as  it  is  packed  up  in  himself," 
said  the  physician,  dryly,  "  and  a  great  deal  of  the  suffering  is 
bile.  But  a propos  of  your  new  journal,  Savarin,  there  is  a 
paragraph  in  it  to-day  which  excites  my  curiosity.  It  says 
that  the  Vicomte  de  Maule'on  has  arrived  in  Paris,  after  many 
years  of  foreign  travel,  and  then,  referring  modestly  enough  to 
the  reputation  for  talent  which  he  had  acquired  in  early  youth, 
proceeds  to  indulge  in  a  prophecy  of  the  future  political  career 
of  a  man  who,  if  he  have  a  grain  of  sens  comninn,  must  think  that 
the  less  said  about  him  the  better.  I  remember  him  well  ;  a 
terrible  mauvais  siijet,  but  superbly  handsome.  There  was  a 
shocking  story  about  the  jewels  of  a  foreign  duchesse,  which 
obliged  him  to  leave  Paris." 

"  But,"  said  Savarin,  "  (he  paragraph  you  refer  to  hints 
that  that  story  is  a  groundless  calumny,  and  that  the  true 
reason  for  De  Mauleon's  voluntary  self-exile  was  a  very  com- 
mon one  among  young  Parisians — he  had  lavished  away  his 
fortune.  He  returns  when,  either  by  heritage  or  his  own  exer- 
tions, he  has  secured  elsewhere  a  competence." 

"  Nevertheless  I  cannot  think  that  society  will  receive 
bun,"  said  Bacourt.  "  When  he  left  Paris,  there  was  one  joy- 
ous sigh  of  relief  among  all  men  who  wished  to  avoid  duels  and 
keep  their  wives  out  of  temptation.  Society  may  welcome  back 
a  lost  sheep,  but  not  a  reinvigorated  wolf." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  mo?i  cher"  said  Enguerrand  ;  "  society 
has  already  opened  its  fold  to  this  poor  ill-treated  wolf.  Two 
days  ago  Louvier  summoned  to  his  house  the  surviving  relations 
or  connections  of  De  MauMon — among  whom  are  the  Marquis 
de  Rochebriant,  the  Counts  De  Passy,  De  Beauvilliers,  De 
Chavigny,  my  father,  and  of  course  his  two  sons — and  submit- 
ted to  us  the  proofs  which  completely  clear  the  Vicomte  de 
MauMon  of  ev-en  a  suspicion  of  fraud  or  dishonor  in  the  affair 
of  the  jewels.  The  proofs  include  the  written  attestation  of 
the  Duke  himself,  and  letters  from  that  nobleman  after  De 
Mauldon's  disappearance  from  Paris,  expressive  of  great  esteem, 
and,  indeed,  of  great  admiration,  for  the  Vicomte's  sense  of 
honor  and  generosity  of  character.  The  result  of  this  family 
council  was  that  we  all  went  in  a  body  to  call  on  De  Maul^on 


THE  PARISIANS. 


269 


And  he  dined  with  my  father  that  same  day.  You  l<now 
enough  of  Count  de  Vandemar,  and,  I  may  add,  of  my  mother, 
to  be  sure  they  are  both,  in  their  several  ways,  too  regardful  of 
social  conventions  to  lend  their  countenance  even  to  a  relation 
without  well  weighing  the  pros  and  cons.  And  as  for  Raoul, 
Bayard  himself  could  not  be  a  greater  stickler  on  the  point  of 
honor." 

This  declaration  was  followed  by  a  silence  that  had  the 
character  of  stupor. 

At  last  Duplessis  said,  "  But  what  has  Louvier  to  do  in  this 
galere'i  Louvier  is  no  relation  of  that  well-born  vaurten  ;  why 
should  he  summon  your  family  council  .''  " 

"  Louvier  excused  his  interference  on  the  ground  of  early 
and  intimate  friendship  with  De  Mauldon,  who,  he  said,  came 
to  consult  him  on  arriving  at  Paris,  and  who  felt  too  proud  or 
too  timid  to  address  relations  with  whom  he  had  long  dropped 
all  intercourse.  An  intermediary  was  required,  and  Louvier 
volunteered  to  take  that  part  on  himself  ;  nothing  more  natural, 
nor  more  simple.  By  the  way,  Alain,  you  dine  with  Louvier  to- 
morrow, do  you  not .'' — a  dinner  in  honor  of  our  rehabilitated 
kinsman.     I  and  Raoul  go." 

"  Yes,  I  shall  be  charmed  to  meet  again  a  man  who,  what- 
ever might  be  his  errors  in  youth,  on  which,"  added  Alain, 
slightly  coloring,  "  it  certainly  does  not  become  me  to  be  severe, 
must  have  suffered  the  most  poignant  anguish  a  man  of  honor 
can  undergo — viz,  honor  suspected  ;  and  who  now,  whether  by 
years  or  sorrow,  is  so  changed  that  I  cannot  recognize  a  like- 
ness to  the  character  I  have  just  heard  given  to  him  as  maiivais 
sttjet  and  vaurten." 

"  Bravo  ! "  cried  Enguerrand  ;  "  all  honor  to  courage — and 
at  Paris  it  requires  great  courage  to  defend  the  absent." 

"  Nay,"  answered  Alain,  in  a  low  voice.  "  The  gentilhomme 
who  will  not  defend  another  gentilhomme  traduced  would,  as  a 
soldier,  betray  a  citadel  and  desert  a  flag." 

"  You  say  M.  de  Mauleon  is  changed,*  said  De  Brezd  ;  "  yes, 
he  must  be  growing  old.     No  trace  left  of  his  good  looks  .''  " 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Enguerrand,  "  he  is  bien  conserve,  and 
has  still  a  very  handsome  head  and  an  imposing  presence.  But 
one  cannot  help  doubting  whether  he  deserved  the  formid  - 
able  reputation  he  acquired  in  youth  ;  his  manner  is  so 
singularly  mild  and  gentle,  his  conversation  so  winningly 
modest,  so  void  in  pretence,  and  his  mode  of  life  is  as  simple 
fts  that  of  a  Spanish  hidalgo." 

"  He  does  not,  then,  affect  the  role  of  Monte  Christo,"  said 


270  ^-^^-^  PARISIANS. 


Duplessis,  "  and  buy  himself   into   notice,   like   that  hero    ol 
romance  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not  :  he  says  verj'  frankly  that  he  has  but  a  very 
small  income,  but  more  than  enough  for  his  wants — richer  than 
in  his  youth  ;  for  he  has  learned  content.  We  may  dismiss  the 
hint  in  *  Le  Sens  Conwiun'  about  his  future  political  career  :  at 
least  he  evinces  no  such  ambition." 

"  How  could  he  as  a  Legitimist  ? "  said  Alain  bitterly. 
**  What  department  would  elect  him  ?  " 

"  But  is  he  a  Legitimist "  asked  De  Brdzd. 

"  I  take  it  for  granted  that  he  must  be  that,"  answered 
Alain,  haughtily,  "  for  he  is  a  De  Mauleon." 

"  His  father  was  as  good  a  De  Mauleon  as  himself,  I  pre- 
sume," rejoined  De  Brdze,  dryly ;  "  and  he  enjoyed  a  place  at 
the  Court  of  Louis  Philippe,  which  a  Legitimist  could  scarcely 
accept.  Victor  did  not,  I  fancy,  trouble  his  head  about  politics 
at  all,  at  the  time  I  remember  him ;  but  to  judge  by  his  chief 
associates,  and  the  notice  he  received  from  the  Princes  of  the 
House  of  Orleans,  I  should  guess  that  he  had  no  predilections 
in  favor  of  Henri  V." 

"  I  should  regret  to  think  so,"  said  Alain,  yet  more  haughtily, 
"since  the  De  Mauleons  acknowledge  the  head  of  their  house 
in  the  representative  of  the  Rochebriants." 

"  At  all  events,"  said  Duplessis,  "  M.  de  Mauldon  appears 
to  be  a  philosopher  of  rare  stamp,  A  Parisian  who  has  known 
riches  and  is  contented  to  be  poor,  is  a  phenomenon  I  should 
like  to  study." 

"  You  have  that  chance  to-morrow  evening,  M.  Duplessis," 
said  En2:uerrand. 

"  What  !  at  M.  Louvier's  dinner  ?  Nay,  I  have  no  other 
acquaintance  with  M.  Louvier  than  that  of  the  Bourse,  and  the 
acquaintance  is  not  cordial." 

"I  did  not  mean  at  M.  Louvier's  dinner,  but  at  the  Duch- 
esse  de  Tarascon's  ball.  You  as  one  of  her  special  favorites, 
will  doubtless  honor  her  reunion." 

"  Yes ;  I  have  promised  my  daughter  to  go  to  the  ball. 
But  the  Duchesse  is  Imperialist.  M.  de  Mauldon  seems  to  be 
either  a  Legitimist,  according  to  M.  le  Marquis,  or  an  Orleanist, 
according  to  our  friend  De  Brdzd." 

"  What  of  that .''  Can  there  be  a  more  loyal  Bourbonite 
than  De  Rochebriant  ?  and  he  goes  to  the  ball.  It  is  given  out 
of  the  season,  in  celebration  of  a  family  marriage.  And  the 
Duchesse  de  Tarascon  is  connected  with  Alain,  and  therefore 
wit'n  De  Mauleon,  though  but  distantly  " 


THE  PARISIANS. 


271 


**  Ah!  excuse  my  ignorance  of  genealogy." 
"  As  if  the  genealogy  of  noble   names  were  not  the  history 
of  France  !  "  muttered  Alain,  indignantly. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Yes,  the  "  Sens  Commun  "  was  a  success  ;  it  had  made  a  sen- 
sation at  starting ;  the  sensation  was  on  the  increase.  It  is 
difficult  for  an  Englishman  to  comprehend  the  full  influence  of 
a  successful  journal  at  Paris  ;  the  station — political,  literary, 
social — which  it  confers  on  the  contributors  who  effect  the  suc- 
cess. M.  Lebeau  had  shown  much  more  sagacity  in  selecting 
Gustave  Rameau  for  the  nominal  editor  than  Savarin  supposed 
or  my  reader  might  detect.  In  the  first  place,  Gustave  himself 
with  all  his  defects  of  information  and  solidity  of  intellect,  was 
not  without  real  genius,  and  a  sort  of  genius  that,  when  kept  in 
restraint,  and  its  field  confined  to  sentiment  or  sarcasm,  was  in 
unison  with  the  temper  of  the  day  :  in  the  second  place,  it  was 
only  through  Gustave  that  Lebeau  could  have  got  at  Savarin  ; 
and  the  names  which  that  brilliant  writer  had  secured  at  the 
outset  would  have  sufficed  to  draw  attention  to  the  earliest 
numbers  of  the  "  Sens  Cofntnun,^^  despite  a  title  which  did  not 
seem  alluring.  But  these  names  alone  could  not  have  sufficed 
to  circulate  the  new  journal  to  the  extent  it  had  already  reached. 
This  was  due  to  the  curiosity  excited  by  leading  articles  of  a 
style  new  to  the  Parisian  public,  and  of  which  the  authorship 
defined  conjecture.  They  were  signed  Pierre  Firmin — supposed 
to  be  a  ?iom  de plume^  as  that  name  was  utterly  unknown  in  the 
world  of  letters.  They  affected  the  tone  of  an  impartial  ob- 
server;  they  neither  espoused  nor  attacked  any  particular 
party  ;  they  laid  down  no  abstract  doctrines  of  government. 
But  somehow  or  other,  in  language  terse  yet  familiar,  sometimes 
careless,  yet  never  vulgar,  they  expressed  a  prevailing  sentiment 
of  uneasy  discontent,  a  forboding  of  some  destined  change  in 
things  established,  without  defining  the  nature  of  such  change, 
without  saying  whether  it  would  be  for  good  or  for  evil.  In  his 
criticisms  upon  individuals,  the  writer  was  guarded  and  moderate 
— the  keenest-eyed  censor  of  the  press  could  not  have  found  a 
pretext  for  interference  with  expression  of  opinions  so  polite. 
Of  the  Emperor  these  articles  spoke  little,  but  thai  liltle   was 


272  THE  PARISIANS. 

not  disrespectful ;  yet,  day  afccr  day,  tlio  articles  contributed  to 
sap  the  Empire.  All  inalcontenls  of  ever)'  shade  comprehended 
as  by  a  secret  of  freemasonry,  that  in  this  journal  they  had  an 
ally.  Against  religion  not  a  word  was  uttered,  yet  the  enemies 
of  religion  bought  that  journal ;  still,  the  friends  of  religion 
bought  it  too,  for  those  articles  treated  with  irony  the  philoso- 
phers on  paper  who  thought  that  their  contradictory  crochets 
could  fuse  themselves  into  any  single  Utopia,  or  that  any  social 
edifice,  hurriedly  run  up  by  the  crazy  few,  could  become  a  per- 
manent habitation  for  the  turbulent  many,  without  the  clamps 
ot  a  creed. 

The  tone  of  these  articles  always  corresponded  with  the  title 
of  the  journal — "  Common  Sense."  It  was  to  common  sense 
that  it  appealed — appealed  in  the  utterance  of  a  man  who  dis- 
dained the  subtle  theories,  the  vehement  declamation,  the 
credulous  beliefs,  or  the  inflated  bombast,  which  constitute  so 
large  a  portion  of  the  Parisian  Press.  The  articles  rather 
resembled  certain  organs  of  the  English  press,  which  profess  to 
be  blinded  by  no  enthusiasm  for  anybody  or  anything,  which 
find  their  sale  in  that  sympathy  with  ill  nature  to  which  Huet 
ascribes  the  popularitv'  of  Tacitus,  and,  always  quietly  under- 
mining institutions  with  a  covert  sneer,  never  pretend  to  a  spirit 
of  imagination  so  at  variance  with  common  sense  as  a  conjecture 
how  the  institutions  should  be  rebuilt  or  replaced. 

Well,  somehow  or  other,  the  journal,  as  I  was  saying,  hit  the 
taste  of  the  Parisian  public.  It  intimated,  with  the  easy  grace 
of  an  unpremeditated  agreeable  talker,  that  French  society  in 
all  its  classes  was  rotten,  and  each  class  was  willing  to  believe 
that  all  the  others  were  rotten,  and  agreed  that  unless  the 
others  were  reformed  there  was  something  very  unsound  in 
itself. 

The  ball  at  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon's  was  a  brilliant 
event.  The  summer  was  far  advanced ;  many  of  the  Parisian 
holiday-makers  had  returned  to  the  capital,  but  the  season  had 
not  commenced,  and  a  ball  at  that  time  of  year  was  a  very  un- 
wonted ev-ent.  But  there  was  a  special  occasion  for  this  fete — • 
a  marriage  between  a  niece  of  the  Duchesse  and  the  son  of  a 
great  official  in  high  favor  at  the  Imperial  Court. 

The  dinner  at  Louvier's  broke  up  early,  and  the  music  for 
the  second  waltz  was  sounding  when  Enguerrand,  Alain,  and 
the  Vicomte  de  Maul^on  ascended  the  stairs.  Raoul  did  not 
accompany  them  ;  he  went  very  rarely  to  any  balls — never  to 
one  given  by  an  Imperialist,  however  nearly  related  to  him  the 
Imperialist  might  be.     But,  in  the  sweet  indulgence  of  his  good 


THE  PARISIANS. 


273 


nature,  he  had  no  blame  for  those  who  did  go — not  for  Enguer- 
rand,  still  less,  of  course,  for  Alain. 

Something,  too,  might  well  here  be  said  as  to  his  feeling 
towards  Victor  de  Mauldon.  He  had  joined  in  the  family 
acquittal  of  that  kinsman  as  to  the  grave  charge  of  the  jewels ; 
the  proofs  of  innocence  thereon  seemed  to  him  unequivocal 
and  decisive,  therefore  he  had  called  on  the  Vicomte  and 
acquiesced  in  all  formal  civilities  shown  to  him.  But,  such  acts 
of  justice  to  a  ieWow-gentilhomme  and  a  kinsman  duly  performed, 
he  desired  to  see  as  little  as  possible  of  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon. 
He  reasoned  thus  : — "  Of  every  charge  which  society  made 
against  this  man  he  is  guiltless.  But  of  all  the  claims  to 
admiration  which  society  accorded  to  him,  before  it  erroneously 
condemned,  there  are  none  which  make  me  covet  his  friend- 
ship, or  suffice  to  dispel  doubts  as  to  what  he  may  be  when 
society  once  more  receives  him.  And  the  man  is  so  captivating 
that  I  should  dread  his  influence  over  myself  did  I  see  much  of 
him." 

Raoul  kept  his  reasonings  to  himself,  for  he  had  that  sort 
of  charity  which  indisposes  an  amiable  man  to  be  severe  on 
bygone  offences.  In  the  eyes  of  Enguerrand  and  Alain,  and 
such  young  votaries  of  the  mode  as  they  could  influence,  Victor 
de  Mauleon  assumed  almost  heroic  proportions.  In  the  affair 
which  had  inflicted  on  him  a  calumny  so  odious,  it  was  clear 
that  he  had  acted  with  chivalrous  delicacy  of  honor.  And  the 
turbulence  and  recklessness  of  his  earlier  years,  redeemed  as 
they  were,  in  the  traditions  of  his  contemporaries,  by  courage 
and  generosity,  were  not  offences  to  which  young  Frenchmen 
are  inclined  to  be  harsh.  All  question  as  to  the  mode  in  which 
his  life  might  have  been  passed  during  his  long  absence  from 
the  capital,  was  merged  in  the  respect  due  to  the  only  facts 
known,  and  these  were  clearly  proved  in  his  pieces  jiistificatives. 
I  St.  That  he  had  served  under  another  name  in  the  ranks  of 
the  army  in  Algiers  ;  had  distinguished  himself  there  for  signal 
valor,  and  received,  with  promotion,  the  decoration  of  the  cross. 
His  real  name  was  known  only  to  his  Colonel,  and  on  quitting 
llie  service  the  Colonel  placed  in  his  hands  a  letter  of  warm 
eulogy  on  his  conduct  and  identifying  him  as  Victor  de  Mauleon. 
2dly.  That  in  California  he  had  saved  a  wealthy  family  from 
midnight  murder,  fighting  single-handed  against  and  overmaster- 
ing three  ruffians,  and  declining  all  other  reward  from  those 
he  had  preserved  than  a  written  attestation  of  their  gratitude. 
In  all  countries  valor  ranks  high  in  the  list  of  virtues  ;  in  no 
country  does  it  so  absolve  from  vices  as  it  does  in  France. 


-.,  -  THE  PARISIANS. 

But  as  yet  Victor  de  Mauldon's  vindication  was  only  known 
by  a  few,  and  those  belonging  to  the  gayer  circles  of  life.  Ho\* 
he  might  be  judged  by  the  sober  middle  class,  which  constitutes 
the  most  important  section  of  public  opinion  to  a  candidate  for 
political  trusts  and  distinctions,  was  another  question. 

The  Duchesse  stood  at  the  door  to  receive  her  visitors 
Duplessis  was  seated  near  the  entrance,  by  the  side  of  a  dis- 
tinguished member  of  the  Imperial  Government,  with  whom  he 
was  carrying  on  a  whispered  conversation.  The  eye  of 
the  financier,  however,  turned  towards  the  doorway  as  Alain 
and  Enguerrand  entered,  and,  passing  over  their  familiar  faces, 
fixed  itself  attentively  on  that  of  a  much  older  man,  whom  En- 
guerrand was  presenting  to  the  Duchesse,  and  in  whom  Du- 
plessis rightly  divined  the  Vicomte  de  Maule'on.  Certainly  if 
•no  one  could  have  recognized  M.  Lebeau  in  the  stately  person- 
ao-e  who  had  visited  Louvier,  still  less  could  one  who  had  heard 
of  the  wild  feats  of  the  roi  des  viveiirs  in  his  youth  reconcile 
belief  in  such  tales  with  the  quiet  modesty  of  mien  which  dis- 
tinguished the  cavalier  now  replying,  with  bended  head  and 
subdued  accents,  to  the  courteous  welcome  of  the  brilliant 
hostess.  But  for  such  difference  in  attributes  between  the  past 
and  the  present  De  Mauleon,  Duplessis  had  been  prepared  by 
the  conversation  at  the  Maison  Doree.  And  now,  as  the 
Vicomte,  yielding  his  place  by  the  Duchesse  to  some  new- 
comer, glided  on,  and,  leaning  against  a  column,  contemplated 
the  gay  scene  before  him  with  that  expression  of  countenance, 
half  sarcastic,  half  mournful,  with  which  men  regard,  after  long 
estrangement,  the  scenes  of  departed  joys,  Duplessis  felt  that 
no  change  in  that  man  had  impaired  the  force  of  character 
which  had  made  him  the  hero  of  reckless  coevals.  Though 
wearing  no  beard,  not  even  a  moustache,  there  was  something 
emphatically  masculine  in  the  contour  of  the  close-shaven  cheek 
and  resolute  jaw,  in  a  forehead  broad  at  the  temples,  and  pro- 
tuberant in  those  organs  over  the  eyebrows  which  are  said  to 
be  significant  of  quick  perception  and  ready  action  ;  in  the  lips, 
when  in  repose  compressed,  perhaps  somewhat  stern  in  their 
expression,  but  pliant  and  mobile  when  speaking,  and  wonder- 
fully fascinating  when  they  smiled.  Altogether,  about  this  Vic- 
tor de  Maule'on  there  was  a  nameless  distinction,  apart  from 
that  of  conventional  elegance.  You  would  have  said,  "  That  is 
a  man  of  some  marked  individuality,  an  eminence  of  some  kind 
in  himself."  You  would  not  be  surprised  to  hear  that  he  was 
a  party-leader,  a  skilled  diplomatist,   a  daring  soldier,  an  ad- 


THE  PARISIANS. 


275 


venturous  traveller,  but  you  would  not  guess  him  to  be  a  student, 
an  author,  an  artist. 

While  Duplessis  thus  observed  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon, 
all  the  while  seeming  to  lend  an  attentive  ear  to  the  whispered 
voice  of  the  Minister  by  his  side,  Alain  passed  on  into  the  ball- 
room. He  was  fresh  enough  to  feel  the  exhilaration  of  the 
dance.  Enguerrand  (who  had  survived  that  excitement,  and 
who  habitually  deserted  any  assembly  at  an  early  hour  for  the 
cigar  and  whist  of  his  club)  had  made  his  way  to  De  Mauleon, 
and  there  stationed  himself.  The  lion  of  one  generation  has  al- 
ways a  mixed  feeling  of  curiosity  and  respect  for  the  lion  of  a  gen- 
eration before  him,  and  the  young  Vandemar  had  conceived  a 
strong  and  almost  an  affectionate  interest  in  this  discrowned  king 
of  that  realm  in  fashion,  which,  once  lost,  is  never  to  be  regained ; 
for  it  is  only  youth  that  can  hold  its  sceptre  and  command  its 
subjects. 

"  In  this  crowd,  Vicomte,"  said  Enguerrand  "  there  must  be 
many  old  acquaintances  of  yours." 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  but  as  yet  I  have  only  seen  new  faces." 

"  As  he  thus  spoke,  a  middle  aged  man  decorated  with  the 
grand  cross  of  the  Legion,  and  half  a  dozen  foreign  orders,  lend- 
ing his  arm  to  a  lady  of  the  same  age  radiant  in  diamonds, 
passed  by  towards  the  ballroom,  and  in  some  sudden  swerve 
of  his  person,  occasioned  by  a  pause  of  his  companion  to  adjust 
her  train,  he  accidentally  brushed  against  De  Mauleon,  whom  he 
had  not  before  noticed.  Turning  round  to  apologize  for  his 
awkwardness,  he  encountered  the  full  gaze  of  the  Vicomte, 
started,  changed  countenance,  and  hurried  on  his  companion. 

"  Do  you  not  recognize  his  Excellency  }  "  said  Enguerrand, 
smiling.     "  His  cannot  be  a  new  face  to  you." 

"  Is  it  the  Baron  De  Lacy.?"  asked  De  Maule'on. 

"  The  Baron  De  Lacy  now  Count  d'  Epinay,  ambassador  at 

the  Court  of ,  and,  if  report  speak  true,  likely  soon  to 

exchange  that  post  for  the  portefeuille  of  Minister." 

"He  has  got  on  in  life  since  I  saw  him  last,  the  little  Barcn. 
He  was  then  my  devoted  imitator,  and  I  was  not  proud  of  the 
imitation." 

"  He  has  got  on  by  always  clinging  to  the  skirts  of  some- 
one stronger  than  himself — to  yours,  I  daresay,  when,  being  a 
parvenu  despite  his  usurped  title  of  Baron,  he  aspired  to  the 
etitree  into  clubs  and  salons.  The  entree  thus  obtained  the  rest 
followed  easily  :  he  became  a  millionaire  through  a  wife's  dot 
and  an  ambassador  through  the  wife's  lover,  who  is  a  power  in 
the  state." 


2^(5  ^'^^^"  PARISIANS. 

"  But  he  must  have  substance  in  himself.     Empty  bags  can 
not  be  made  to  stand  upright.     Ah  !   unless   I   mistake,   I   see 
some  one  I  knew  better.     Yon   pale,   thin  man,  also  with  the 
grand  cross, — surely  that  is  Alfred  Hennequin.      Is  he   too   a 
decorated  Imperialist  ?     I  left  him  a  socialistic  republican." 

"  But,  I  presume,  even  then  an  eloquent  avocat.  He  got  in- 
to tlie  chamber,  spoke  well,  defended  the  coup-d'  etat.  H«  has 
just  been  made  Prefet  of  the  great  department  of  the ,  a  pop- 
ular appointment.  He  bears  a  high  character.  Pray  renew  your 
acquaintance  with  him  ;  he  is  coming  this  way." 

"  Will  so  grave  a  dignitary  renew  acquaintance  with  me  ?  I 
doubt  it."' 

But,  as  De  Mauldon  said  this,  he  moved  from  the  col- 
umn and  advanced  toward  the  Prefet.  Enguerrand  followed  him 
and  saw  the  Vicomte  extend  his  hand  to  his  old  acquaintance. 
The  Prefet  stared,  and  said,  with  frigid  courtesy,  "  Pardon  me 
— some  mistake." 

"  Allow,  me  M.  Hennequin,"  said  Enguerrand,  interposing, 
and  wishing  good-naturedly  to  save  De  Mauleon  the  awkward- 
ness of  introducing  himself, —  "  allow  me  to  introduce  you  to 
my  kinsman,  whom  the  lapse  of  years  may  well  excuse  you  for 
forgetting,  the  Vicomte  De  Mauleon." 

Still  the  Prefet  did  not  accept  the  hand.  He  bowed  with 
formal  ceremony,  said,  "  I  was  not  aware  that  M.  le  Comte  had 
returned  to  Paris,"  and,  moving  to  the  doorway,  made  his  sal- 
utation to  the  hostess,  and  disappeared. 

"  The  insolent !  "  muttered  Enguerrand. 

"  Hush  ! "  said  De  Maule'on  quietly  ;  "  I  can  fight  no  more 
duels — especially  with  a  Prefet.  But  I  own  I  am  weak  enough 
to  feel  hurt  at  such  a  reception  from  Hennequin,  for  he  owed 
me  some  obligations — small,  perhaps,  but  still  they  were  such 
as  might  have  made  me  select  him  rather  than  Louvier,  as  the 
vindicator  of  my  name,  had  I  known  him  to  be  so  high  placed. 
But  a  man  who  has  raised  himself  into  an  au*:hority  may  well  be 
excused  for  forgetting  a  friend  whose  character  needs  defence. 
I  forgive  him." 

There  was  something  pathetic  in  the  Vicomte's  tone,  which 
touched  Enguerrand's  warm  light  heart.  But  De  Mauleon  did 
not  allow  him  time  to  answer.  He  went  on  quickly  through  an 
opening  in  the  gay  crowd,  which  immediately  closed  behind 
him,  and  Enguerrand  saw  him  no  more  that  evening. 

Duplessis  ere  this  had  quitted  his  seat  by  the  Minister,  drawn 
(hence  by  a  young  and  very  pretty  girl  resigned  to  his  charge 
by  a  cavalier  with  wliom  she  had  been  dancing.     She  was  the 


THE  PARISIANS, 


277 


only  daughter  of  Duplessis,  and  he  vahied  her  even  more  than 
the  millions  he  had  made  at  the  Bourse.  "  The  Princess,"  she 
said,  "  has  been  swept  ofif  in  the  train  gf  some  German  Royalty ; 
so,  petit pere,  I  must  impose  myself  on  thee." 

The  Princess,  a  Russian  of  high  rank,  was  the  chaperon  that 
evening  of  Mademoiselle  Valerie  Duplessis. 

"  And  I  suppose  1  must  take  thee  back  into  the  ballroom," 
said  the  financier,  smiling  proudly,  "  and  find  thee  partners." 

"  I  don't  want  your  aid  for  that,  monsieur  ;  except  this  quad 
rille,  my  list  is  pretty  well  filled  up." 

"  And  I  hope  the  partners  will  be  pleasant.  Let  me  know 
who  they  are,"  he  whispered,  as  they  threaded  their  way  into  the 
ballroom. 

The  girl  glanced  at  her  tablet. 

"  Well,  the  first  on  the  list  is  Milord  somebody,  with  an  un- 
pronounceable English  name." 

"  Beau  cavalier  .''  " 

*'  No  ;  ugly,  old  too — thirty  at  least." 

Duplessis  felt  relieved.  He  did  not  wish  his  daughter  to 
fall  in  love  with  an  Englishman. 

"  And  the  next  ?  " 

"  The  next  ? " "  she  said,  hesitatingly,  and  he  observed 

that  a  soft  blush  accompanied  the  hesitation. 

"  Yes,  the  next.     Not  English  too  .?  " 

"  Oh,  no  ;  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant." 

*'  Ah  !  who  presented  him  to  thee  .''  " 

"Thy  friend /^////^;v,  M.  de  Bre'zd." 

Duplessis  again  glanced  at  his  daughter's  face  ;  it  was  bent 
over  her  bouquet. 

"  Is  he  ugly  also  .?  " 

"  Ugly  !  "  exclaimed  the  girl,  indignantly ;  "  why,  he  is 
— — "  She  checked  herself,  and  turned  away  her  head. 

Duplessis  became  thoughtful.  He  was  glad  that  he  had 
accompanied  his  child  into  the  ballroom  ;  he  would  stay  there 
and  keep  watch  on  her  and  Rochebriant  also. 

Up  to  that  moment  he  had  felt  a  dislike  to  Rochebriant. 
That  young  noble's  too  obvious  pride  of  race  had  nettled  him, 
not  the  less  that  the  financier  himself  was  vain  of  h'i  ances- 
try. Perhaps  he  still  disliked  Alain,  but  the  dislike  tvas  now 
accompanied  with  a  certain,  not  hostile,  interest ;  and  if  he 
became  connected  with  the  race,  the  pride  in  it  might  grow  con- 
tagious. 

They  had  not  been  long  in  the  ballroom  before  Alain  came 
up  to  claim  his  promised  partner.     In  saluting  Duplessis,  his 


278 


THE  r  ARTS  TANS. 


manner  was  the  same  as  usual — not  more  cordial,  not  less  cere< 
moniouslv  distant.  A  man  so  able  as  the  financier  cannot  be 
without  quick  knowledge  of  the  human  heart. 

•'  If  disposed  to  fall  in  love  with  Valerie,"  thought  Duplessis, 
"  he  would  have  taken  more  pains  to  please  her  father.  Well 
thank  heaven,  there  are  better  matches  to  be  found  for  her  than 
a  noble  without  fortune  and  a  Legitimist  without  career." 

In  fact,  Alain  felt  no  more  for  Valerie  than  for  any  other 
prett}'  girl  in  the  room.  In  talking  with  the  Vicomte  de 
Br^zd  in  the  intervals  of  the  dance,  he  had  made  some  passing 
remark  on  her  beauty  ;  De  Breze  had  said,  "  Yes,  she  is 
charming  ;  I  will  present  you,"  and  hastened  to  do  so  before 
Rochebriant  even  learned  her  name.  So  introduced,  he  could 
but  invite  her  to  give  him  her  first  disengaged  dance  ;  and 
when  that  was  fixed,  he  had  retired,  without  entering  into  con- 
versation. 

Now,  as  they  took  their  place  in  the  quadrille,  he  felt  that 
effort  of  speech  had  become  a  duty,  if  not  a  pleasure  ;  and 
of  course,  he  began  with  the  first  commonplace  which  presented 
itself  to  his  mind. 

"  Do  you  think  it  a  ver}'  pleasant  ball,  Mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  dropped,  in  almost  inaudible  reply,  from  Valerie's 
rosy  lips. 

"  And  not  overcrowded,  as  most  balls  are." 

Valerie's  lips  again  moved,  but  this  time  quite  inaudibly. 

The  obligations  of  the  figure  now  caused  a  pause,  Alain 
racked  his  brains  and  began  again  : — 

"  They  tell  me  the  last  season  was  more  than  usually  gay  ; 
of  that  I  cannot  judge,  for  it  was  wellnigh  over  when  I  came  to 
Paris  for  the  first  time." 

Valerie  looked  up  with  a  more  animated  expression  than  her 
childlike  face  had  yet  shown,  and  said,  this  time  distinctly, 
"  This  is  my  first  ball.  Monsieur  le  Marquis." 

"  One  has  only  to  look  at  Mademoiselle  to  divine  that  fact," 
replied  Alain,  gallantly. 

Again  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  dance  ;  but 
the  ice  between  the  two  was  now  broken.  And  when  the 
quadrille  was  concluded,  and  Rochebriant  led  the  fair  Vale'rie 
back  to  her  father's  side,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  been  listening 
to  the  music  of  the  spheres,  and  that  the  music  had  now 
suddenly  stopped.  Alain,  alas  for  her,  was  under  no  such 
pleasing  illusion.  Her  talk  had  seemed  to  him  artless  indeed, 
but  very  insipid,  compared  with  the  brilliant  conversation 
of   the    wedded    Parisiennes   with    whom   lie    more    habitually 


THE  PARISIAXS.  279 

danced  ;  and  it  was  with  rather  a  sensation  of  relief  that  he 
made  his  parting  bow  and  receded  into  the  crowd  of  by- 
standers. 

Meanwhile  De  Mauleon  had  quitted  the  assemblage,  walking 
slowly  through  the  deserted  streets  towards  his  apartment. 
The  civilities  he  had  met  at  Louvier's  dinner-party,  and  the 
marked  distinction  paid  to  him  by  kinsmen  of  rank  and  posi- 
tion so  unequivocal  as  Alain  and  Enguerrand,  had  softened 
his  mood  and  cheered  his  spirits.  He  had  begun  to  question 
himself  whether  a  fair  opening  to  his  political  ambition  was 
really  forbidden  to  him  under  the  existent  order  of  things, 
whether  it  necessitated  the  employment  of  such  dangerous 
tools  as  those  to  which  anger  and  despair  had  reconciled  his 
intellect.  But  the  pointed  way  in  which  he  had  been  shunned 
or  slighted  by  the  two  men  who  belonged  to  political  life — to 
men  who  in  youth  had  looked  up  to  himself,  and  whose  daz- 
zling career  of  honors  was  identified  with  the  Imperial  system 
— reanimated  his  fiercer  passions  and  his  more  perilous  designs. 
The  frigid  accost  of  Hennequin  more  especially  galled  him 
it  wounded  not  only  his  pride  but  his  heart ;  it  had  the  venom 
of  ingratitude  ;  and  it  is  the  peculiar  privilege  of  ingratitude  to 
wound  hearts  that  have  learned  to  harden  themselves  to  the  hate 
or  contempt  of  men  to  whom  no  services  have  been  rendered. 
In  some  private  affair  concerning  his  property,  De  Mauldon  had 
had  occasion  to  consult  Hennequin,  then  a  rising  young  avocat. 
Out  of  that  consultation  a  friendship  had  sprung  up,  despite  the 
differing  habits  and  social  standing  of  the  two  men.  One  day 
calling  on  Hennequin,  he  found  him  in  a  great  state  of  nervous 
excitement.  The  avocat  had  received  a  public  insult  in  the 
salo7i  of  a  noble,  to  whom  De  Maule'on  had  introduced  him, 
from  a  man  who  pretended  to  the  hand  of  a  young  lady  to 
whom  Hennequin  was  attached  and  indeed  almost  affianced. 
The  man  was  a  notorious  spa  dassin — a  duelist  little  less  re- 
nowned for  skill  in  all  weapons  than  De  Mauldon  himself.  The 
affair  had  been  such  that  Hennequin's  friends  assured  him  he 
had  no  choice  but  to  challenge  this  bravo.  Hennequin,  brave 
enough  at  the  bar,  was  no  hero  before  sword-point  or  pistol. 
He  was  utterly  ignorant  of  the  use  of  either  weapon  ;  his  death 
in  the  encounter  with  an  antagonist  so  formidable  seemed  to 
him  certain  ;  and  life  was  so  precious, — an  honorable  and  dis- 
tinguished career  opening  before  him,  marriage  with  the 
woman  he  loved  :  still  he  had  the  Frenchman's  point  of 
honor.  He  had  been  told  that  he  must  fight ;  well,  then,  he 
must.     He  asked  De  Mauleon  to  be  one  of  his  seconds,  and,  in 


28o  THE  PARISIANS. 

asking  him,  sank  in  his  chair,  covered  his  face  with  his  hands 
and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Wait  till  to-morrow,"  said  De  Maule'on  ;  "  take  no  step  till 
then.  Meanwhile,  you  are  in  my  hands,  and  I  answer  ^ot 
your  honor." 

On  leaving  Hennequin,  Victor  sought  the  spadassin  at  the 
club  of  which  they  were  both  members,  and  contrived,  without 
reference  to  Hennequin,  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  him.  A  chal- 
lenge ensued;  a  duel  with  swords  took  place  the  next  morning. 
De  Mauldon  disarmed  and  wounded  his  antagonist,  not  gravely, 
but  sufficiently  to  terminate  the  encounter.  He  assisted  to  con- 
vey the  wounded  man  to  his  apartment,  and  planted  himself  by 
his  bedside,  as  if  he  were  a  friend. 

"  Why  on  earth  did  you  fasten  a  quarrel  on  me  ?"  asked  the 
spadassin  ;  "  and  why,  having  done  so,  did  you  spare  my  life  ? 
tor  your  sword  was  at  my  heart  when  you  shifted  its  point  and 
pierced  my  shoulder." 

"  I  will  tell  you,  and,  in  so  doing,  beg  you  to  accept  my 
friendship  hereafter,  on  one  condition.  In  the  course  of  the  day 
write  or  dictate  a  few  civil  words  of  apology  to  M.  Hennequin. 
Ma/oi  /  tvQ.rY  one  will  praise  you  for  a  generosity  so  becoming 
in  a  man  who  has  given  such  proofs  of  courage  and  skill  to  an 
avocat  who  has  never  handled  a  sword  nor  fired  a  pistol." 

That  same  day  De  Mauleon  remitted  to  Hennequin  an 
apology  for  heated  words  freely  retracted,  which  satisfied  all 
his  friends.  For  the  service  thus  rendered  by  De  Mauleon 
Hennequin  declared  himself  everlastingly  indebted.  In  fact, 
he  entirely  owed  that  friend  his  life,  his  marriage,  his  honor,  his 
career. 

"  And  now,"  thought  De  Mauleon,  "  now  when  he  could  so 
easily  requite  me, — now  he  will  not  even  take  my  hand.  Is 
human  nature  itself  at  war  with  me  ?  " 


CHAPTER  III. 

Nothing  could  be  simpler  than  the  apartment  of  the  V.- 
comte  de  MauMon,  in  the  second  story  of  a  quiet  old-fashioned 
street.  It  had  been  furnished  at  small  cost  out  of  his  savings. 
Yet,  on  the  whole,  it  evinced  the  good  taste  of  a  m.an  who  had 
once  been  among  the  exquisites  of  the  polite  world. 

You  felt  that  you  were  in  the  apartment  of  a  gentleman, 
and  a  gentleman  of  somewhat  severe  tastes  and  of  sober  matured 


THE  PARISIANS.  281 

years.  He  was  sitting  the  next  morning  in  the  room  which  he 
used  as  a  private  study.  Along  the  walls  were  arranged  dwarf 
bookcases,  as  yet  occupied  by  few  books,  most  of  them  books 
of  reference,  others  cheap  editions  of  the  French  classics  in 
prose — no  poets,  no  romance-writers — with  a  few  Latin  authors 
also  in  prose — Cicero,  Sallust,  Tacitus.  He  was  engaged  at  his 
desk  writing — a  book  with  its  leaves  open  before  him,  "  Paul 
Louis  Courier,"  that  model  of  political  irony  and  masculine 
style  of  composition.  There  was  a  ring  at  his  door-bell.  The 
Vicomte  kept  no  servents.  He  rose  and  answered  the  summons. 
He  recoiled  a  few  paces  on  recognizing  in  his  visitor  M.  Henne- 
quin. 

The  Prefet  this  time  did  not  withdraw  his  hand  ;  he  extended 
it,  but  it  was  with  a  certain  awkwardness  and  timidity. 

"  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  call  on  you,  Vicomte,  thus  early, 
having  already  seen  M.  Enguerrand  de  Vandemar.  He  has 
shown  me  the  copies  of  XhQ  pieces  which  were  inspected  by  your 
distinguished  kinsmen,  and  which  completely  clear  you  of  the 
charge  that,  grant  me  your  pardon  when  I  say,  seemed  to  me 
still  to  remain  unanswered  when  I  had  the  honor  to  meet  you 
last  night." 

"  It  appears  to  me  M.  Hennequin,  that  you,  as  an  avocat  so 
eminent,  might  have  convinced  yourself  very  readily  of  that 
fact." 

"  M.  le  Vicomte,  I  was  in  Switzerland  with  my  wife  at  the 
lime  of  the  unfortunate  affair  in  which  you  were  involved." 

"  But  when  you  returned  to  Paris,  yon  might  perhaps  have 
deigned  to  make  inquiries  sO'  affecting  the  honor  of  one  you  had 
called  a  friend,  and  for  whom  you  had  professed" — De  Mauleon 
paused  ;  he  disdained  to  add — "  an  eternal  gratitude." 

Hennequin  colored  slightly,  bat  replied  with  self-posses- 
sion— 

"  I  certainly  did  inquire.  I  did  hear  tha^  the  charge  against 
you  with  regard  to  the  abstraction  of  the  jewels  was  withdrawn 
— that  you  were  therefore  acquitted  by  law  ;  but  I  heard  also 
that  society  did  not  acquit  you,  and  that,  finding  this,  you  had 
quitted  France,  Pardon  me  again,  no  one  would  listen  to  me 
when  I  attempted  to  speak  on  your  behalf.  But  now  that 
so  many  years  have  elapsed,  that  the  story  is  imperfectly  re- 
membered, that  relations  so  high-placed  receive  you  so  cordial- 
ly,— now,  I  rejoice  to  think  that  you  will  have  no  difficulty  in 
regaining  a  social  position  never  really  lost,  but  for  a  time  re- 
signed." 

"  I  am  duly  sensible  of  the  friendly  joy  you  express.     I  was 


2S2  THE  PARISIANS. 

reading  the  other  clay  in  a  lively  autlior  some  pleasant  remarks 
on  the  effects  of  medisance  or  calumny  upon  our  impressionable 
Parisian  public.  *  If,'  says  the  writer,  '  I  found  myself  accused 
of  having  put  the  two  towers  of  Notre  Dame  into  my  waistcoat 
pocket,  I  should  not  dream  of  defending  myself  ;  I  should  take 
to  flight.  'And,'  adds  the  writer,  '  if  my  best  friend  were  under 
the  same  accusation,  I  should  be  so  afraid  of  being  considered 
his  accomplice  that  I  should  put  my  best  friend  outside  the  door.' 
Perhaps,  M.  Hennequin,  I  was  seized  with  the  first  alarm.  Why 
should  I  blame  you  if  seized  with  the  second?  Happily,  this 
good  city  of  Paris  has  its  reactions.  And  you  can  now  offer  me 
your  hand.  Paris  has  by  this  time  discovered  that  the  two 
towers  of  Notre  Dame  are  not  in  my  pocket." 

There  was  a  pause.  De  Mauleon  had  resettled  himself  at 
his  desk,  bending  over  his  papers,  and  his  manner  seemed  to 
imply  that  he  considered  the  conversation  at  an  end. 

But  a  pang  of  shame,  of  remorse,  of  tender  remembrance, 
shot  across  the  heart  of  the  decorous,  worldly,  self-seeking 
man,  who  owed  all  that  he  now  was  to  the  cidevant  vaurien 
before  him.  Again  he  stretched  forth  his  hand,  and  this  time 
grasped  De  Mauldon's  warmly.  "  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  feel- 
ingly and  hoarsely  ;  "  forgive  me,  I  was  to  blame.  By 
character,  and  perhaps  by  the  necessities  of  my  career,  I  am 
over-timid  to  public  opinion,  public  scandal.  Forgive  me.  Say 
if  in  anything  now  I  can  requite,  tliough  but  slightly,  the  service 
I  owe  you." 

De  Mauldon  looked  steadily  at  the  Prefet,  and  said  slowly, 
"  \^'ould  you  ser\'e  me  in  turn  ?  are  you  sincere  ?  " 

The  Prefet  hesitated  a  moment,  then  answered  firmly, 
"  Yes." 

"  Well  then,  what  I  ask  of  you  is  a  frank  opinion — not  as 
lawyer,  not  as  Prefet^  but  as  a  man  who  knows  the  present  state 
of  French  society.  Give  that  opinion  without  respect  to  my 
feelings  one  way  or  the  other.  Let  it  emanate  solely  from  your 
practised  judgment." 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  Hennequin,  wondering  what  was  to  come. 

De  MauMon  resumed — 

'*  As  you  may  remember,  during  my  former  career  I  had  no 
political  ambition.  I  did  not  meddle  with  politics.  In  the 
troubled  times  that  imniediately  succeeded  the  fall  of  Louis 
Philij^pe  I  was  but  an  epicurean  looker-on.  Grant  that,  so  far 
as  admission  to  the  salons  is  concerned,  I  shall  encounter  no 
difficulty  in  regaining  position.  But  as  regards  the  Chamber, 
public  life,  a  political  career— can  I  have  any  fair  opening  under 


THE  PARISIANS. 


283 


the   empire  ?     You   pause.     Answer,    as   you   liave    promised, 
frankly." 

"  The  difficulties  in  the  way  of  a  political  career  would  be 
very  great." 

"  Insuperable  ?  " 

'  I  fear  so.  Of  course,  in  my  capacity  of  Prefet  I  have  no 
small  influence  in  my  department  in  support  of  a  Government 
candidate.  But  I  do  not  think  that  the  Imperial  Government 
could,  at  this  time  especially,  in  which  it  must  be  very  ceutious 
in  selecting  its  candidates,  be  induced  to  recommend  you.  The 
affair  of  the  jewels  would  be  raked  up — your  vindication  disputed, 
denied — the  fact  that  for  so  many  years  you  have  acquiesced  in 
that  charge  without  taking  steps  to  refute  it — your  antecedents, 
even  apart  from  that  charge — your  present  want  of  property 
(  M.  Enguerrand  tells  me  your  income  is  but  moderate) — the 
absence  of  all  previous  repute  in  public  life.  No  ;  relinquish 
the  idea  of  political  contest — it  would  expose  you  to  inevitable 
mortifications,  to  a  failure  that  would  even  jeopardize  the  admis- 
sion to  the  salons  which  you  are  now  gaining.  You  could  not 
be  a  Government  candidate." 

"  Granted.     I  may  have  no  desire  to  be  one  ;  but  an  oppo 
sition  candidate,  one  of  the  Liberal  party  ?  " 

"  As  an  Imperialist,"  said  Hennequin,  smiling  gravely, 
**  and  holding  the  office  I  do,  it  would  not  become  me  to  en- 
courage a  candidate  against  the  Emperor's  Government.  But 
speaking  with  the  frankness  you  solicit,  I  should  say  that  your 
chances  there  are  infinitely  worse.  The  opposition  are  in  a 
pitiful  minority — the  most  eminent  of  the  Liberals  can  scarcely 
gain  seats  for  themselves  ;  great  local  popularity  or  property, 
high  established  repute  for  established  patriotism,  or  proved 
talents  of  oratory  and  statesmanship,  are  essential  qualifications 
for  a  seat  in  the  opposition  ;  and  even  these  do  not  suffice  for 
a  third  of  the  persons  who  possess  them.  Be  again  what  you 
were  before,  the  hero  of  salons,  remote  fron  the  turbulent  vul- 
garity of  politics." 

"  I  am  answered.  Thank  you  once  more.  The  serv'ice  I 
rendered  you  once  is  requited  now." 

"  No,  indeed — no  ;  but  will  you  dine  with  me  quietly  to-day, 
and  allow  me  to  present  to  you  my  wife  and  two  children,  born 
since  we  parted  1  I  say  to-day,  for  to-morrow  I  return  to  my 
Prefecture." 

"  I  am  infinitely  obliged  by  your  invitation,  but  to-day  I 
dine  with  the  Count  de  Beauvilliers,  to  meet  some  of  the  Corps 
Diplomatique.     I  must  make  good  my  place  in  the  salons,  since 


284 


THE  PARISIANS. 


you  SO  clearly  show  me  that  I  have  no  chance  of  one  in  the 
Legislature — unless " 

"  Unless  what  ?  " 

"  Unless  there  happen  one  of  those  revolutions  in  which  ihe 
scum  conies  uppermost." 

"  No  fear  of  that.  The  subterranean  barracks  and  railway 
have  ended  forever  the  rise  of  the  scum — the  reign  of  the  ca- 
naille and  its  barricades." 

"  Adieu,  my  dear  Hennequin.  My  respectful  hommages  a 
^farlame." 

After  that  day  the  writings  of  Pierre  Firmin  in  "  Le  Sens 
Connnun"  though  still  keeping  within  the  pale  of  the  law, 
became  more  decidedly  hostile  to  the  Imperial  system,  still 
without  committing  their  author  to  any  definite  programme  of 
the  sort  of  government  that  should  succeed  it. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


The  weeks  glided  on.  Isaura's  MS.  had  passed  into  print  ; 
it  came  out  in  the  French  fashion  of  feuillctons — a  small  de- 
tacliment  at  a  time.  A  previous  flourish  of  trumpets  by  Savarin 
and  the  clique  at  his  command  insured  it  attention,  if  not  from 
the  general  public,  at  least  from  critical  and  literary  coteries. 
Before  the  fourth  installment  appeared,  it  had  outgrown  the 
patronage  of  the  coteries  ;  it  seized  hold  of  the  public.  It  was 
not  in  the  last  school  in  fashion  ;  incidents  were  not  crowded 
and  violent — they  were  few  and  simple,  rather  appertaining 
to  an  elder  school,  in  which  poetry  of  sentiment  and  grace  of 
diction  prevailed.  That  very  resemblance  to  old  favorites  gave 
it  the  attraction  of  novelty.  In  a  word,  it  excited  a  pleased 
admiration,  and  great  curiosity  was  felt  as  to  the  authorship. 
When  it  oozed  out  that  it  was  by  the  young  lady  whose  future 
success  in  the  musical  world  had  been  so  sanguinelv  predicted  by 
all  who  had  heard  her  sing,  the  interest  wonderfully  increased. 
Petitions  to  be  introduced  to  her  acquaintance  were  showered 
upon  Savarin  :  before  she  scarc'ely  realized  her  dawning  fame, 
she  was  drawn  from  her  quiet  home  and  retired  habits  ;  she  was 
fctce  and  courted  in  the  literary  circle  of  which  Savarin  was  a 
chief.  That  circle  touched,  on  one  side,  Bohemia  :  on  the 
other,  that  realm  of  politer  fashion  which  in  every  intellectual 


THE  PARISIANS.  285 

metropolis,  but  especially  in  Paris,  seeks  to  gain  borrowed 
light  from  luminaries  in  art  and  letters.  But  the  very  admira- 
tion she  obtained  somewhat  depressed,  somewhat  troubled  her : 
after  all,  it  did  not  differ  from  that  which  was  at  her  command 
as  a  singer. 

On  the  one  hand,  she  shrank  instinctively  from  the  dresses 
of  female  authors  and  the  familiar  greetings  of  male  authors  who 
frankly  lived  in  philosophical  disdain  af  the  conventions  respect- 
ed by  sober,  decorous  mortals.     On  the  other  hand,  in  the  civ- 
ilities of  those  who,  while  they  courted  a  rising  celebrity,   still 
held  their  habitual  existence  apart  from  the  artistic  world,  there 
was  a  certain    air  of  condescension,   of  patronage  toward   the 
young  stranger  with  no  other  protector  than  Signora  Venosta, 
the  ci-devant  public  singer,  who  had  made  her  debut  in  a  journal 
edited    by    Gustave   Rameau,    which,    however    disguised     by 
exaggerated  terms  of  praise,  wounded   her  pride  of  woman   in 
flattering  her    vanity   as   author.     Among  this  latter  set   were 
wealthy  high-born  men  who  addressed  her  as  woman — as  woman 
beautiful  and  young — with  words  of  gallantry  that  implied  love, 
but  certainly  no  thought  of  marriage  :  many  of  the  most  ardent 
were,  indeed,   married   already.     But   once   launched   into   the 
thick  of  Parisian  hospitalities,   it    was  difficult    to    draw    back. 
The  Venosta  wept  at   the  thought  of  missing  one  lively  soiree, 
and   Savarin   laughed  at  her  shrinking  fastidiousness  as  that  of 
a  child's  ignorance  of  the  world.     But  still   she  had  her  morn 
ings  to  herself  ;  and  in  those  mornings,  devoted  to  the  contin- 
uance of  her  work  (for  the  commencement  was  in  print  before 
a  third  was  completed),  she  forgot  the  commonplace  world  that 
received  her  in  the  evenings.     Insensibly  to  herself,  the  tone  of 
this  work  had  changed  as  it  proceeded.     It  had  begun  seriously 
indeed,  but  in  the  seriousness  there  was   a  certain   latent  joy. 
It  might  be  the  joy  of  having  found  vent  of  utterance  ;  it  might  be 
rather  a  joy  still  more  latent,  inspired  by  the  remembrance  of 
Graham's  words  and  looks,  and  by  the  thought  that  she  had  re- 
nounced all  idea  of  the  professional  career  which  he  had  evi- 
dently disapproved.     Life  then  seemed  to  her  a  bright  posses- 
sion.    We  have  seen  that  she  had  begun  \v^xro77ian  without  plan- 
ning how  it  should  end.     She  had,  however,   then  meant  it  to 
end,  somehow  or  other,  happily.     Now  the  lustre  had  gone  from 
life — the  tone  of  the  work  was  saddened — it  forboded  a  tragic 
close.     But  for  the  general  reader  it  became,  with  every  chap- 
ter, still  more  interesting  :  the  poor  child  had  a  singularly  musi- 
cal gift  of  style — a  music   which  lent  itself  naturally  to  pathos. 
Every  young  writer  knows  how  his  work,  if  one  of  feeling,  will 


2  86  THE  PARISIANS. 

color  itself  from  some  truth  in  his  innermost  self,  and,  in  pro- 
portion as  it  does  so,  how  his  absorption  in  the  work  increases, 
till  it  becomes  part  and  parcel  of  his  own  mind  and  heart. 
The  presence  of  a  hidden  sorrow  may  change  the  fate  of  the 
beings  lie  has  created,  and  guide  to  the  grave  those  whom,  in  a 
happier  vein,  he  would  have  united  at  the  altar.  It  is  not  till 
a  later  stage  of  experience  and  art  that  the  writer  escapes 
from  the  influence  of  his  own  personality  and  lives  in  existences 
that  take  no  colorings  from  his  own.  Genius  usually  must  pass 
through  the  subjective  process  before  it  gains  the  objective.. 
Even  a  Shakspeare  represents  himself  in  the  Sonnets  before 
no  trace  of  himself  is  visible  in  a  Falstaff  or  a  Lear. 

No  news  of  the  Ensflishman — not  a  word.  Isaura  could  not 
but  feel  that  in  his  words,  his  looks,  that  day  in  her  own  garden, 
and  those  yet  happier  days  at  Enghien,  there  had  been  more 
than  friendship  :  there  had  been  love — love  enough  to  justify 
her  own  pride  in  whispering  to  herself,  "  And  I  love  too." 
But  then  that  last  parting  !  how  changed  he  was — how  cold  ! 
She  conjectured  that  jealousy  of  Rameau  might,  in  some  degree, 
account  for  the  coldness  when  he  first  entered  the  room,  but 
surely  not  when  he  left ;  surely  not  when  she  had  overpassed 
the  reserve  of  her  sex,  and  implied,  by  signs  rarely  misconstrued 
by  those  who  lov^e,  that  he  had  no  cause  for  jealousy  of  another. 
Yet  he  had  gone — parted  with  her  pointedly  as  a  friend,  a  mere 
friend.  How  foolish  she  had  been  to  think  this  rich  ambitious 
foreigner  could  ever  have  meant  to  be  more  I  In  the  occupa- 
tion of  her  work  she  thought  to  banish  his  image  :  but  in  that 
work  the  image  was  never  absent ;  there  were  passages  in  which 
she  pleadingly  addressed  it,  and  then  would  cease  abruptly, 
stifled  by  passionate  tears.  Still  she  faiicied  that  the  work 
would  reunite  them  ;  that  in  its  pages  he  would  hear  her  voice 
and  comprehend  her  heart.  And  thus  all  praise  of  the  work 
became  very,  very  dear  to  her. 

At  last,  after  many  weeks,  Savarin  heard  from  Graham. 
The  letter  was  dated  Aix-la-Chapelle,  at  which  the  Englishman 
said  he  might  yet  be  some  time  detained.  In  the  letter  Graham 
spoke  chiefly  of  the  new  journal ;  in  polite  compliment  of  Sava- 
rin's  own  effusions;  in  mixed  praise  and  condemnation  of  the 
political  and  social  articles  signed  Pierre  Firmin — praise  of 
their  intellectual  power,  condemnation  of  their  moral  cynicism. 
"  The  writer,"  he  said,  "  reminds  me  of  a  passage  in  which 
Montesquieu  compares  the  heathen  philosophers  to  those  plants 
which  the  earth  produces  in  places  that  have  never  seen  the 
heavens.     The  soil  of  his  experience  does  not  grow  a  single 


THE  PARISIANS.  287 

belief;  and  as  no  community  can  exist  without  a  belief  of  some 
kind,  so  a  politician  without  belief  can  but  help  to  destroy  ;  he 
cannot  reconstruct.  Such  writers  corrupt  a  society  ;  they  do 
not  reform  a  system,"  He  closed  his  letter  with  a  reference  to 
Isaura  :  "  Do,  in  your  reply,  my  dear  Savarin,  tell  me  something 
about  your  friends  Signora  Venosta  and  the  Signorina,  whose 
work,  so  far  as  yet  published,  I  have  read  with  admiring  aston- 
ishment at  the  power  of  a  female  writer  so  young  to  rival  the 
veteran  practitioners  of  fiction  in  the  creation  of  interest  in  im- 
aginary characters,  and  in  sentiments  which,  if  they  appear 
somewhat  over-romantic  and  exaggerated,  still  touch  very  fine 
chords  in  human  nature  not  awakened  in  our  trite  everyday  ex- 
istence. I  presume  that  the  beauty  of  the  roman  has  been  duly 
appreciated  by  a  public  so  refined  as  the  Parisian,  and  that  the 
name  of  the  author  is  generally  known.  No  doubt  she  is  now 
much  the  rage  of  the  literary  circles,  and  her  career  as  a  writer 
may  be  considered  fixed.  Pray  present  my  congratulations  to 
the  Signorina  when  you  see  her." 

Savarin  had  been  in  receipt  of  this  letter  some  days  before 
he  called  on  Isaura  and  carelessly  showed  it  to  her.  She  took 
it  to  the  window  to  read,  in  order  to  conceal  the  trembling  of 
her  hands.     In  a  few  minutes  she  returned  it  silently. 

"  Those  Englishmen,"  said  Savarin,  "  have  not  the  art  of 
compliment.  I  am  by  no  means  flattered  by  what  he  says  of  my 
trifles,  and  I  daresay  you  are  still  less  pleased  with  this  chilly 
praise  of  your  charming  tale  ;  but  the  man  means  to  be  civil." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Isaura,  smiling  faintly. 

"  Only  think  of  Rameau,"  resumed  Savarin ;  "  on  the 
strength  of  his  salary  in  the  '■  Se7is  Commun,'  and  on  the  chat- 
eaux en  Espag?ie  which  he  constructs  thereon,  he  has  already 
furnished  an  apartment  in  the  Chassee  d'Antin,  and  talks  of 
setting  up  a  toupe  in  order  to  maintain  the  dignity  of  letters 
when  he  goes  to  dine  with  the  duchesses  who  are  some  day  or 
other  to  invite  him.  Yet  I  admire  his  self-confidence,  though  I 
laugh  at  it.  A  man  gets  on  by  a  spring  in  his  own  mechanism, 
and  he  should  always  keep  it  wound  up.  Rameau  will  make  a 
figure.  I  used  to  pity  him  ;  I  begin  to  respect :  nothing  succeeds 
like  success.  But  I  see  I  am  spoiling  your  morning.  Au  revoir^ 
mon  enfant.^'' 

Left  alone,  Isaura  brooded  in  a  sort  of  mournful  wonder- 
ment over  the  words  referring  to  herself  in  Graham's  letter 
Read  through  but  once,  she  knew  them  by  heart.     What!  did 
he  consider  those  characters  she  had  represented  as  wholly  im- 
aginary ?     In  one — the  most   prominent,  the  most   attractive — ■ 


288  TJIE  PARISIANS. 

could  he  detect  no  likeness  to  himself  ?  What !  did  he  consider 
those  characters  she  had  represented  as  wholly  imaginar)'  ?    In 
one — the  most  prominent,  the  most  attractive — could  he  detect 
no  likeness  to  himself  ?     What !  did  he  consider  so  "  over-ro- 
mantic and  exaggerated"  sentiments  which  couched  appeals 
from  her  heart  to  his  ?     Alas  !  in  matters  of  sentiment  it  is  the 
misfortune  of  us  men  that  even  the  most  refined  of  us  often 
grate  upon  some  sentiment  in  a  woman,  though  she  may  not  be 
lomantic — not  romantic  at  all,  as   people  go, — some  sentiment 
which  she  thought  must  be  so  obvious  if  we  cared  a  straw  about 
her,  and  which,  though  we  prize  her  above  the  Indies,  is,  by  our 
dim,  horn-eyed,   masculine    vision,  undiscernible.      It  may  be 
something  in  itself  the  airiest  of  trifles, — the  anniversary  of  a  day 
on  which  the  first  kiss  was  interchanged,  nay,  of  a  violet  gath- 
ered, a  misunderstanding  cleared  up  ;  and  of  that  anniversary 
we  remember  no  more  than  we  do  of  our  bells  and  coral.     But 
she — she   remembers    it ;  it    is  no  bells  and  coral  to  her.     Of 
course,  much   is  to  be  said  in   excuse  of  man,  brute  though  he 
be.     Consider  the  multiplicity  of   his  occupations,  the  practical 
nature  of  his  cares.     But,  granting   the  validity  of  all  such  ex- 
cuse, there  is  in   man  an  orignal  obtuseness  of  fibre  as  regards 
sentiment    in    comparison  with   the   delicacy  of   woman's.     It 
comes,  perhaps,  from  the  same  hardness  of  constitution  which 
forbids  us  the  luxury  of  ready  tears.     Thus   it  is  very  difficult 
for  the  wisest  man  to  understand  thoroughly  a  woman.     Goethe 
says  somewhere  that  the  highest  genius  in  man  must  have  much 
of  the  woman  in  it.     If  this  be  true,  the  highest  genius  alone  in 
man  can  comprehend  and  explain  the  nature  of  woman  ;  because 
it  is  not  remote  from  him,  but  an  integral  part  of  his  masculine 
self.     I  am  not  sure,  however,  that  it   necessitates  the   highest 
genius,  but  rather  a  special  idiosyncrasy  in  genius,  which  the 
highest  may  or  may  not  have.     I   think   Sophocles  a  higher 
genius  than  Euripides  ;  but  Euripides  has  that  idiosyncrasy,  and 
Sophocles  not.     I  doubt  whether  women  would  accept  Goethe 
as  their  interpreter  with  the  same  readiness   with  which  they 
would  accept  Schiller.     Shakspeare,  no  doubt,  excels  all  poets 
in  the  comprehension  of  women,  in  his  sympathy  with  them  in 
the   woman-part  of   his   nature   which  Goethe    ascribes  to  the 
highest  genius ;  but,  putting  aside  that  "  monster,"  I  do  not  re- 
member any  English   poet  whom  we  should  consider  conspicu- 
ously eminent  in  that  lore,  unless  it  be  the  prose  poet,  nowadays 
generally  underrated  and  little  read,  who  wrote  the  letters  oi 
Clarissa    Harlowe.     I    say  all    this  in   vindication  of   Graham 
Vane,  if,  though  a  very  clever  man  in  his  way,  and  by  no  means 


THE  PARISIANS.  289 

uninstructed  in  human  nature,  he  had  utterly  failed   in   compre- 
hending the  mysteries  which  to  this  poor  woman-child    seemed 
to    need  no   key  for   one   who  really  loved  her.     But  we  have 
said  somewhere  before  in  this  book    that    music  speaks  in  a  lan- 
guage which  cannot  explain  itself  except  in   music.     So  speaks 
in  the  human  heart,  much  which  is  akin  to  music.  Fiction  (that  is, 
poetr}',  whether  in  form    of   rhyme    or  prose)  speaks  thus  pretty 
often.     A  reader  must  be  more  commonplace  than,  I  trust,  my 
gei.tle  readers  are,  if  he   suppose,  that  when   Isaura  symbolized 
the  real  hero  of  her  thoughts  in  the  fabled  hero  of  her   romance 
she  depicted  him  as  one  of  whom  the  world  could  say,  "  That  is 
Graham  Vane."     I  doubt  if  even  a  male  poet  would  so  vulgarize 
any   woman   whom    he   thoroughly  reverenced  and  loved.     She 
is  too  sacred  to  him  to  be  thus  unveiled  to   the   public   stare;  as 
the  sweetest  of  all  ancient  love  poets  says  well, — 

"Qui  sapit  in  tacito  gaudeat  ille  sinu." 

But  a  girl,  a  girl  in  her  first  untold  timid  love,  to  let  the  world 
know,  "  that  is  the  man  I  love  and  would  die  for  !" — if  such  a 
girl  be,  she  has  no  touch  of  the  true  woman-genius,  and  certainly 
she  and  Isaura  have  nothing  in  common.  Well,  then,  in  Isaura's 
invented  hero,  though  she  saw  the  archetypal  form  of  Graham 
Vane — saw  him  as  in  her  young,  vague,  romantic  dreams,  idea- 
lized, beautified,  transfigured, — he  would  have  been  the  vainest 
of  men  if  he  had  seen  therein  the  reflection  of  himself.  On  the 
contrary,  he  said,  in  the  spirit  of  that  jealousy  to  which  he  was 
too  prone,  "Alas!  this,  then,  is  some  ideal,  already  seen  perhaps, 
compared  to  which  how  commonplace  am  I  !  "  and,  thus  per- 
suading himself,  no  wonder  that  the  sentiments  surrounding 
this  unrecognized  archetype  appeared  to  him  over-romantic. 
His  taste  acknowledged  the  beauty  of  form  which  clothed  them; 
his  heart  envied  the  ideal  that  inspired  them.  But  they  seemed 
so  remote  from  him;  they  put  the  dreamland  of  the  writer 
farther  and  farther  from  his  work-day  real  life. 

In  this  frame  of  mind,  then,  he  had  written  to  Savarin,  and 
the  answer  he  received  hardened  it  still  more.  Savarin  had  re- 
plied, as  was  his  laudable  wont  in  correspondence,  the  very  day 
he  received  Graham's  letter,  and  therefore  before  he  had  even 
seen  Isaura.  In  his  reply,  he  spoke  much  of  the  success  her 
work  had  obtained;  of  the  invitations  showered  upon  her,  and 
the  sensation  she  caused  in  the  salons ;  of  her  future  career, 
with  hope  that  she  might  even  rival  Madame  de  Grantmesnil 
some  day,  when  her  ideas  became  emboldened  by  maturer  ex- 


igo  THE  PARISIANS. 

perience  and  a  closer  study  of  that  model  of  eloquent  st)'le, — 
saying  that  the  young  editor  was  evidently  becoming  enamoured 
of  his  fair  contributor,  and  that  Madame  Savarin  had  ventured 
the  prediction  that  the  Signorina's  roman  would  end  in  the  death 
^  the  heroine  and  Uie  marriage  of  the  writer. 


CHArTER    V. 

And  still  the  weeks  glided  on  ;  autumn  succeeded  to  sum- 
mer, the  winter  to  autumn  :  the  season  of  Paris  was  at  its 
height.  The  wondrous  Capital  seemed  to  repay  its  Imperial 
embellisher  by  the  splendor  and  joy  of  \\.%  fetes.  But  the  smiles 
on  the  face  of  Paris  were  hypocritical  and  hollow.  The  Empire 
itself  had  passed  out  of  fashion.  Grave  men  and  impartial  ob- 
servers felt  anxious.  Napoleon  had  renounced  les  idees  Napol- 
eonietines.  Pie  was  passing  into  the  category  of  constitutional 
sovereigns,  and  reigning,  not  by  his  old  undivided  prestige, 
but  by  the  grace  of  party.  The  press  was  free  to  circulate 
complaints  as  to  the  past  and  demands  as  to  the  future,  beneath 
which  the  present  reeled — ominous  of  earthquake.  People 
asked  themselves  if  it  were  possible  that  the  Empire  could  co- 
exist with  forms  of  government  not  imperial,  yet  not  genuinely 
constitutional,  with  a  majority  daily  yielding  to  a  minority. 
The  basis  of  universal  suffrage  was  sapped.  About  this  time 
the  articles  in  the  "  Sens  Commufi"  signed  Pierre  Firmin,  were 
creating  not  only  considerable  sensation,  but  marked  effect  on 
opinion  ;  and  the  sale  of  the  journal  was  immense. 

Necessarily  the  repute  and  the  position  of  Gustave  Rameau, 
as  the  avowed  editor  of  this  potent  journal,  rose  with  its  success 
Not  only  his  repute  and  position  ;  bank-notes  of  considerable 
value  were  transmitted  to  him  by  the  publisher,  with  the  brief 
statement  that  they  were  sent  by  the  sole  proprietor  of  the 
paper  as  the  editor's  fair  share  of  the  profit.  The  proprietor 
was  never  named,  but  Rameau  took  it  for  granted  that  it  was 
M.  Lebeau.  M.  Lebeau  he  had  never  seen  since  the  day  he 
had  brought  him  the  list  of  contributers,  and  was  then  referred 
to  the  publisher,  whom  he  supjiosed  iM.  Lebeau  had  secured, 
and  received  the  first  quarter  of  his  salary  in  advance.  The 
salary  was  a  irille  compared  to  the  extra  prohts  thus  generously 


THE  PARISIANS.  291 

volunteered.     He  called  at  Lebeau's  office,  and  saw  only  the 
clerk,  who  said  his  c/ief  was  abroad. 

Prosperity  produced  a  marked  change  for  the  better,  if  not 
in  the  substance  of  Rameau's  character,  at  least  in  his  man- 
ners and  social  converse.  He  no  longer  exhibited  that  restless 
envy  of  rivals  which  is  the  most  repulsive  symptom  of  vanity 
diseased.  He  pardoned  Isaura  her  success  ;  nay,  he  was  even 
pleased  at  it.  The  nature  of  her  work  did  not  clash  with  his 
own  kind  of  writing.  It  was  so  thoroughly  woman-like  that  one 
could  not  compare  it  to  a  man's.  Moreover,  that  success  had 
contributed  largely  to  the  profits  by  which  he  had  benefited, 
and  to  his  renown  as  editor  of  the  journal  which  accorded 
place  to  tliis  new-found  genius.  But  there  was  a  deeper  and 
more  potent  cause  for  sympathy  with  the  success  of  his  fair 
young  contributer.  He  had  imperceptibly  glided  into  love 
with  her — a  love  very  different  from  that  with  which  poor  Julie 
Caumartin  flattered  herself  she  had  inspired  the  young  poet. 
Isaura  was  one  of  those  women  for  whom,  even  in  natures  the 
least  chivalric,  love — however  ardent — cannot  fail  to  be  accom- 
panied with  a  certain  reverence,  the  reverence  with  which  the 
ancient  knighthood,  in  its  love  for  women,  honored  the  ideal 
purity  of  womanhood  itself.  Till  then  Rameau  had  never 
revered  any  one. 

On  her  side,  brought  so  frequently  into  communication 
with  the  young  conductor  of  the  journal  in  which  she  wrote, 
Isaura  entertained  for  him  a  friendly,  almost  sister-like  af- 
fection. 

I  do  not  think  that,  even  if  she  had  never  known  the  Eng- 
lishman, she  would  have  really  become  in  love  with  Rameau, 
despite  the  picturesque  beauty  of  his  countenance,  and  the  con- 
geniality of  literary  pursuits;  but  perhaps  she  might  h.?L\'e.  fancied 
herself  in  love  with  him.  And  till  one,  whether  man  or  woman, 
has  known  real  love,  fancy  is  readily  mistaken  for  it.  But,  lit- 
tle as  she  had  seen  of  Graham,  and  that  little  not  of  itself  wholly 
favorable  to  him,  she  knew  in  her  heart  of  hearts  that  his  image 
would  never  be  replaced  by  one  equally  dear.  Perhaps  in 
those  qualities  that  placed  him  in  opposition  to  her  she  felt  his 
attractions.  The  poetical  in  woman  exaggerates  the  worth  of 
the  practical  in  man.  Siill,  for  Rameau  her  exquisitely  kind 
and  sympathizing  nature  conceived  one  of  those  senti- 
ments which  in  woman  are  almost  angel-like.  We  have  seen 
in  her  letters  to  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  that  from  the  first  he 
inspired  her  with  a  compassionate  interest ;  then  the  corapassi'»-n 
was  checked  by  her  perception  of  his  more  unaimable  and  e  - 


2^2  THE  PARISIANS. 

vious  attributes.  But  now  those  attributes,  if  still  existent,  had 
ceased  to  be  apparent  to  her,  and  the  compassion  became  un- 
alloyed. Indeed  it  was  thus  so  far  increased,  that  it  was  impos- 
sible for  any  friendly  observer  to  look  at  the  beautiful  face  of 
this  youth,  prematurely  wasted  and  worn,  without  the  kindli- 
ness of  pity.  His  prosperity  had  brightened  and  sweetened 
the  expression  of  that  face,  but  it  had  not  effaced  the  vesti^fes 
of  decay;  rather  perhaps  deepened  them,  for  the  duties  of  his 
post  necessitated  a  regular  labor,  to  which  he  had  been  unaccus- 
tomed, and  the  regular  labor  necessitated,  or  seemed  to  him  to 
necessitate,  an  increase  of  fatal  stimulants.  He  imbibed 
absinthe  with  everything  he  drank,  and  to  absinthe  he  united 
opium.  This  of  i:ourse,  Isaura  knew  not,  any  more  than  she 
knew  of  his  liaison  with  the  "  Ondine  "  of  his  muse  ;  she  saw 
only  the  increasing  delicacy  of  his  face  and  form,  contrasted 
by  his  increased  geniality  and  liveliness  of  his  spirits,  and  the 
contrast  saddened  her.  Intellectually,  too,  she  felt  for  him 
compassion.  She  recognized  and  respected  in  him  the  yearn- 
ings of  a  genius  too  weak  to  perform  a  tithe  of  what,  in  the  ar- 
rogance of  youth,  it  promised  to  its  ambition.  She  saw,  too, 
those  struggles  between  a  higher  and  a  lower  self,  to  which  a 
weak  degree  of  genius,  united  with  a  strong  degree  of  arro- 
gance, is  so  often  subjected.  Perhaps  she  overestimated  the 
degree  of  genius,  and  what,  if  rightly  guided,  it  could  do  ;  but 
she  did,  in  the  desire  of  her  own  heavenlier  instinct,  aspire  to 
guide  it  heavenward.  And,  as  if  she  were  twenty  years  older 
than  himself,  she  obeyed  that  desire  in  remonstrating  and  warn- 
ing and  urging ;  and  the  young  man  took  all  these  "  preach- 
ments "  with  a  pleased  submissive  patience.  Such,  as  the  new 
year  dawned  upon  the  grave  of  the  old  one,  was  the  position 
between  tliese  two.  And  nothing  more  was  heard  from  Graham 
Vane. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


It  has  now  become  due  to  Graham  Vane,  and  to  his  place 
in  the  estimation  of  my  readers,  to  explain  somewhat  more  dis- 
tinctly the  nature  of  the  quest  in  prosecution  of  which  he  had 
sought  the  aid  of  the  Parisian  police,  and,  under  an  assumed 
name,  made  the  acquaintance  of  M.  Lebcau. 


THE  PARISIANS.  293 

The  best  way  of  discharging  this  duty  will  perhaps  be  to 
place  before  the  reader  the  contents  of  the  letter  which  passed 
under  Graham's  eyes  on  the  day  on  which  the  heart  of  the 
writer  ceased  to  beat. 

"  Confidential. 
"  To  be  opened  immediately  after  my  death,  and  before  the  perusal 
of  my  will. 

"  Richard  King, 

"  To  Graham  Vane,  Esq. 

"  My  dear  Graham, — By  the  direction  on  the  envelope 
of  this  letter,  '  Before  the  perusal  of  my  will,'  I  have  wished 
to  save  you  from  the  disappointment  you  would  naturally  ex- 
perience if  you  learned  my  bequest  without  being  prevised  of 
the  conditions  which  I  am  about  to  impose  upon  your  honor. 
You  will  see  ere  you  conclude  this  letter  that  you  are  the  only 
man  living  to  whom  I  could  intrust  the  secret  it  contains  and 
the  task  it  enjoins. 

"  You  are  aware  that  I  was  not  born  to  the  fortune  that 
passed  to  me  by  the  death  of  a  distant  relation,  who  had,  in 
my  earlier  youth,  children  of  his  own.  I  was  an  only  son, 
left  an  orphan  at  the  age  of  sixteen  with  a  very  slender  pit- 
tance. My  guardians  designed  me  for  the  medical  profession, 
I  began  my  studies  at  Edinburgh,  and  was  sent  to  Paris  to 
complete  them.  It  so  chanced  that  there  I  lodged  in  the 
same  house  with  an  artist  named  Auguste  Duval,  who,  failing 
to  gain  his  livelihood  as  a  painter  in  what — for  his  style  was 
ambitious — is  termed  the  Historical  School,  had  accepted  the 
humbler  calling  of  a  drawing-master.  He  had  practised  in 
that  branch  of  the  profession  for  several  years  at  Tours,  having 
a  good  clientele  among  English  families  settled  there.  This 
clientele,  as  he  frankly  confessed,  he  had  lost  from  some  irregu- 
larities of  conduct.  He  was  not  a  bad  man,  but  of  convivial 
temper,  and  easily  led  into  temptation.  He  had  removed  to 
Paris  a  few  months  before  I  made  his  acquaintance.  He  ob- 
tained a  few  pupils,  and  often  lost  them  as  soon  as  gained.  Pie 
wa«  unpunctual  and  addicted  to  drink.  But  he  had  a  small 
pension,  accorded  to  him,  he  was  wont  to  say  mysteriously,  by 
some  high-born  kinsfolk,  too  proud  to  own  connection  with  a 
drawing-master,  and  on  the  condition  that  he  should  never 
name  them.  He  never  did  name  them  to  me,  and  I  do  not 
know  to  this  day  whether  the  story  of  this  noble  relationship 
was  true  or  false.  A  pension,  however,  he  did  receive  quar- 
terly from  some   person  or  other,  and  it  was  an  unhappy  pro- 


,^4  ^^^  PAK/SrAATS. 

vision  for  him.     It  tended  to  make  him  an  idler  in  his  propel 
calling  ;  and  whenever  he    received  the  pa}Tnent  he  spent  it  in 
debauch,  to  the   neglect,  while   it  lasted,  of  his  pupils.     This 
man  had  residing  with  him  a  young  daughter,  singularly  beau- 
tiful.    You  may  divine   the  rest.     I    fell    in  love   with  her — a 
love  deepened   by  the  compassion  wdth  which  she  inspired  me. 
Her  father  left  her  so  frequently,  that,  living  on  the  same  floor, 
we  saw  much  of  each  other.     Parent  and  child  were  often  in 
great  need — lacking  even  fuel  or  food.     Of  course  I  assisted 
them  to   the  utmost   of  my   scanty   means.     Much   as  I   was 
fascinated  by  Louise  Duval,  I  was  not  blind  to  great  defects 
in   her   character.      She    was    capricious,  vain,  aware    of   her 
beauty,  and  sighing  for  the  pleasures  or  the  gauds  beyond  her 
reach.     1  knew  that  she  did  not  love  me — there  was  little,  in- 
deed, to   captivate    her  fancy  in    a   poor,  threadbare    medical 
student— and  yet  I  fondly  imagined  that  my  own   persevering 
devotion  would   at  length  win  her  affections.     I  spoke  to  her 
father  more  than  once   of  my  hope   some  day  to  make  Louise 
my  wife.     This  hope,  I   must  frankly  acknowledge,  he   never 
encouraged.     On  the  contrary,  he  treated  it  with  scorn, — '  His 
child  with  her  beauty  would  look  much  higher  ' ;  but  he  con- 
tinued all  the  same  to  accept  my  assistance  and  to  sanction  my 
visits.    At  length  my  slender  purse  was  pretty  well  exhausted, 
and  the  luckless    drawing-master  was  so  harassed   with  petty 
debts  that  further  credit  became  impossible.  At  this  time  I  hap- 
pened to  hear  from  a  fellow-student  that  his  sister,  who  was  the 
principle  of  a  ladies'  school   in  Cheltenham,  had  commissioned 
him  to  look  out  for  a  first-rate  teacher  of  drawing,  with  whom  her 
elder  pupils  could  converse  in  French,  but  who  should  be  suffi- 
ciently acquainted  with  English  to  make  his  instructions  intel- 
ligible to  the  young.     The   salary  was  liberal,  the  school  large 
and  of  high  repute,  and  his  appointment  to  it  would  open  to  an 
able  teacher  no  inconsiderable  connection   among  private  fam- 
ilies     I  communicated  this  intelligence  to  Duval.     He    caught 
ai  it  eagerly.  He  had  learned  at  Tours  to  speak  English  fluently ; 
and  as   his   professional   skill  was  of   high  order,  and    he  was 
popular^  with  several  eminent  artists,  he  obtained  certificates 
as  to  his   talents,  which   my   fellow-student   forwarded  to  Y.n- 
gland  with  specimens  of  Duval's  drawings.     Li  a  few  days  the 
oiler  of  an  engagement  arrived,  was  accepted,  and   Duval  and 
his  daughter  set  out   for   Cheltenham.     At   the  eve  of   theii 
departure,  Louise,  profoundly  dejected  at  the  prospect  of  ban- 
-shment   to   a   foreign   country,  and    placing   no  trust   in    her 
father's  reform  to  steady  habits,  evinced  a  tenderness  for  me 


THE  PARISIANS.  295 

hitherto  new — she  wept  bitterly.  She  allowed  me  to  believe 
that  her  tears  flowed  at  the  thought  of  parting  with  me,  and 
even  besought  me  to  accompany  them  to  Cheltenham — if  only 
for  a  few  days.  You  may  suppose  how  delightedly  I  com- 
plied with  the  request.  Duval  had  been  about  a  week  at  the 
watering-place,  and  was  discharging  the  duties  he  had  under- 
taken with  such  unwonted  steadiness  and  regularity  that  I 
began  sorrowfully  to  feel  I  no  longer  had  an  excuse  for  not 
returning  to  my  studies  at  Paris,  when  the  poor  teacher  was 
seized  with  a  fit  of  paralysis.  He  lost  the  power  of  movement, 
and  his  mind  was  affected.  The  medical  attendant  called  in 
said  that  he  might  linger  thus  for  some  time,  but  that,  even 
if  he  recovered  his  intellect,  which  was  more  than  doubtful 
he  would  never  be  able  to  resume  his  profession.  I  could  not 
leave  Louise  in  circumstances  so  distressing.  I  remained. 
The  little  money  Duval  had  brought  from  Paris  was  now  ex- 
hausted; and  when  the  day  on  which  he  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  receiving  his  quarter's  pension  came  round,  Louise 
was  unable  even  to  conjecture  how  it  was  to  be  applied  for. 
It  seems  that  he  had  always  gone  for  it  in  person,  but  to  whom 
he  went  was  a  secret  which  he  had  never  divulged.  And  at 
this  critical  juncture  his  mind  was  too  enfeebled  even  to  com- 
prehend us  when  we  inquired.  I  had  already  drawn  from 
the  small  capital  on  the  interest  of  which  I  had  maintained 
myself ;  I  now  drew  out  most  of  the  remainder.  But  this 
was  a  resource  that  could  not  last  long.  Nor  could  I,  without 
seriously  compromising  Louise's  character,  be  constantly  in 
the  house  with  a  girl  so  young,  and  whose  sole  legitimate  pro- 
tector was  thus  afflicted.  There  seemed  but  one  alternative 
to  that  of  abandoning  her  altogther — viz — to  make  her  my 
wife,  to  conclude  the  studies  necessary  to  obtain  my  diploma 
and  purchase  some  partnership  in  a  small  country  practice 
with  the  scanty  surplus  that  might  be  left  of  my  capital.  I 
placed  this  option  before  Louise  timidly,  for  I  could  not  bear 
the  thought  of  forcing  her  inclinations.  She  seemed  much 
moved  by  what  she  called  my  generosity :  she  consented — we 
were  married.  I  was,  as  you  may  conceive,  wholly  ignorant 
of  French  law.  We  were  married  according  to  the  Enghsh 
ceremony  and  Protestant  ritual.  Shortly  after  our  mar- 
riage we  all  three  returned  to  Paris,  taking  an  apartment  in  a 
quarter  remote  from  that  in  which  we  had  before  lodged,  in 
order  to  avoid  any  harassment  to  which  such  small  creditors 
as  Duval  had  left  behind  him  might  subject  us.  I  resumed 
my  studies  with  redoubled  energy,  and  Louise  was  necessarily 


296 


THE  PARISIANS. 


ieft  much  alone  with  her  poor  father  in  the  daytime.  Tlie 
defects  in  her  character  became  more  and  more  visible.  She 
reproached  me  for  the  solitude  to  which  1  condemned  her ;  our 
poverty  galled  her ;  she  had  no  kind  greeting  for  me  when  I 
returned  at  evening  wearied  out.  Before  marriage  she  had  not 
loved  me— after  marriage,  alas  !  I  fear  she  hated.  We  had  been 
returned  to  Paris  some  months  when  poor  Duval  died  :  he  had 
never  recovered  his  faculties,  nor  had  we  ever  learned  from 
whom  his  pension  had  been  received.  Very  soon  after  her 
father's  death  I  observed  a  singular  change  in  the  humor  and 
manner  of  Louise.  She  was  no  longer  peevish,  irascible,  reproach- 
ful, but  taciturn  and  thoughtful.  She  seemed  to  me  under  the 
intiuence  of  some  suppressed  excitement,  her  cheeks  flushed 
and  her  eye  abstracted.  At  length  one  evening  when  I  re 
turned  I  found  her  gone.  She  did  not  return'  that  night 
nor  the  next  day.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  conjecture 
what  had  become  of  her.  She  had  no  friends,  so  far  as  I  knew 
— no  one  had  visited  at  our  squalid  apartment.  The  poor  house 
in  which  we  had  lodged  had  no  coticierge  \\\iom.  I  could  question  ; 
but  the  ground-floor  was  occupied  by  a  small  tobacconist's 
shop,  and  the  woman  at  the  counter  told  me  that  for  some  days 
before  my  wife's  disappearance  she  had  observed  her  pass  the 
shop-window  in  going  out  in  the  afternoon  and  returning  to- 
wards the  evening.  Two  terrible  conjectures  beset  me  :  either  in 
her  walks  she  had  met  some  admirer,  with  whom  she  had  tied 
or,  unable  to  bear  the  companionship  and  poverty  of  a  imion 
which  she  had  begun  to  loathe,  she  had  gone  forth  to  drown 
herself  in  the  Seine.  On  the  third  day  of  her  flight  I  received 
the  letter  I  enclose.  Possibly  the  handwriting  may  serve  you 
as  a  guide  in  the  mission  I  intrust  to  you. 

"  '  Monsieur, — You  have  deceived  me  vilely — taken  ad- 
vantage of  my  inexperienced  youth  and  friendless  position  to 
decoy  me  into  an  illegal  marriage.  My  only  consolation  undei 
my  calamity  and  disgrace  is,  that  I  am  at  least  free  from  a  de- 
tested bond.  You  will  not  see  me  again — it  is  idle  to  attempt 
to  do  so.  I  have  obtained  refuge  with  relations  whom  I  have 
been  fortunate  enough  to  discover,  and  to  whom  I  intrust  my 
fate.  And  even  if  you  could  learn  the  refuge  I  have  sought, 
and  have  the  audacity  to  molest  me,  you  would  but  subject  your- 
self to  the  chastisement  you  so  richly  desen'C. 

'  Louise  Duval.' 

"  At  the  perusal  of  this  cold-hearted  ungrateful  letter,  the 
love  I  had  felt  for  this  woman — already  much  shaken   by  hei 


THE  PARISIANS. 


297 


wayward  and  perverse  temper — vanished  from  my  heart,  never 
to  return.  But  as  an  honest  man,  my  conscience  was  terribly 
stung.  Could  it  be  possible  that  I  had  unknowingly  deceived 
her — that  our  marriage  was  not  legal  1 

"  When  1  recovered  from  the  stun  which  was  the  first  effect 
of  her  letter,  I  sought  the  opinion  of  an  avotie  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, named  Sartiges,  and,  to  my  dismay,  I  learned  that  while 
I,  marrying  according  to  the  customs  of  my  own  country,  was 
legally  bound  to  Louise  in  England,  and  could  not  marry 
another,  the  marriage  was  in  all  ways  illegal  for  her, — being 
without  the  consent  of  her  relations  while  she  was  under  age — 
without  the  ceremonials  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  to 
which,  though  I  never  heard  any  profession  of  religious  belief 
from  her  or  her  father,  it  might  fairly  be  presumed  that  she  be- 
longed— and,  above  all,  without  the  form  of  civil  contract 
which  is  indispensable  to  the  legal  marriage  of  a  French  sub- 
ject. 

"  The  aToue  said  that  the  marriage,  therefore,  in  itself  was 
null,  and  that  Louise  could,  without  incurring  legal  penalties 
for  bigamy,  marry  again  in  France  according  to  the  French 
laws  ;  but  under  the  circumstances  it  was  probable  that  her 
next  of  kin  would  apply  on  her  behalf  to  the  proper  court  for 
the  formal  annulment  of  the  marriage,  which  would  be  the 
most  effectual  mode  of  saving  her  from  any  molestation  on  my 
part,  and  remove  all  possible  question  hereafter  as  to  her  single 
state  and  absolute  right  to  re-marry.  I  had  better  remain 
quiet,  and  wait  for  intimation  of  further  proceedings.  I  knew 
not  what  else  to  do,  and  necessarily  submitted. 

"From  this  wretched  listlessness  of  mind,  alternated  now  by 
vehement  resentment  against  Louise,  now  by  the  reproach  of 
my  own  sense  of  honor  in  leaving  that  honor  in  so  questionable  a 
point  of  view,  I  was  aroused  by  a  letter  from  the  distant  kins- 
man by  whom  hitherto  I  had  been  so  neglected.  \\\  the  pre- 
vious year  he  had  lost  one  of  his  two  children  ;  the  other  was  just 
dead  :  no  nearer  relation  now  surviving  stood  between  me  and 
my  chance  of  inheritance  from  him.  He  wrote  word  of  his 
domestic  affliction  with  a  manly  sorrow  which  touched  me,  said 
that  his  health  was  failing  and  begged  me,  as  soon  as  possible, 
to  come  and  visit  him  in  Scotland.  I  went,  and  continued  to 
reside  with  him  till  his  death,  some  months  afterwards.  By 
his  will  I  succeeded  to  his  ample  fortune  on  condition  of  taking 
his  name. 

"As  soon  as  the  affair  connected  with  his  inheritance  per- 
mitted, I  returned  to  Paris,  and  again  saw  M.  Sartiges.     I  had 


2Qg  THE  PARISIANS. 

never  heard  from  Louise,  nor  from  any  one  connected  with  her, 
since  the  letter  you  have  read.  No  steps  had  been  taken  to  an- 
nul the  marriage,  and  sufTicient  time  had  elapsed  to  render  it 
improbable  that  such  steps  would  be  taken  now.  But  rf  no  such 
steps  were  taken,  however  free  from  the  marriage-bond  Louise 
might  be,  it  clearly  remained  binding  on  myself, 

"  At  my  request,  M.  Sartiges  took  the  most  vigorous  meas- 
ures that  occurred  to  him  to  ascertain  where  Louise  was,  and 
who  was  the  relation  with  whom  she  asserted  she  had  found 
refuge.  The  police  were  employed  ;  advertisments  were  issued 
concealing  names,  but  sufficiently  clear  to  be  intelligible  to 
Louise  if  they  came  under  her  eyes,  and  to  the  effect  that  if  any 
informality  in  our  marriage  existed,  she  was  implored  for  her 
own  sake  to  remove  it  by  a  second  ceremonial — answer  to  be 
addressed  to  the  avoue.  No  answer  came  ;  the  police  had  hither- 
to failed  of  discovering  her,  but  were  sanguine  of  success,  when 
a  few  weeks  after  these  advertisements  a  packet  reached  M. 
Sartiges,  inclosing  the  certificates,  annexed  to  this  letter,  of  the 
death  of  Louise  Duval  at  Munich.  The  certificates,  as  you  will 
see,  are  to  appearance  officially  attested  and  unquestionably 
genuine.  So  they  were  considdered  by  M.  Sartiges  as  well  as 
myself.  Here,  then,  all  inquiry  ceased — the  police  were  dis- 
missed. 1  was  free.  By  little  and  little  I  overcame  the  pain- 
ful impressions  which  my  ill-starred  union  and  the  announcement 
of  Louise's  early  death  bequeathed.  Rich  and  of  active  mind,  I 
learned  to  dismiss  the  trials  of  my  youth  as  a  gloomy  dream.  I 
entered  into  public  life  ;  I  made  myself  a  creditable  position  ; 
became  acquainted  with  your  aunt ;  we  were  wedded,  and  the 
beauty  of  her  nature  embellished  mine.  Alas,  alas  !  two  years 
after  our  marriasre — nearlv  five  vears  after  I  had  received  the 
certificates  of  Louise's  death — I  and  your  aunt  made  a  summer 
excursion  into  the  countrv  of  the  Rhine  :  on  our  return  we  rested 
at  Aix-la-Chapelle.  One  day  while  there  I  was  walking  alone 
in  the  environs  of  the  town,  when,  on  the  road,  a  little  girl, 
seemingly  about  five  years  old,  in  chase  of  a  butterfly,  stumbleci 
and  fell  just  before  my  feet ;  I  took  her  up,  and  as  she  was  cry- 
ing more  from  the  shock  of  the  fall  than  any  actual  hurt,  I 
was  still  trying  my  best  to  comfort  her,  when  a  lady  some  paces 
behind  her  came  up,  and  in  taking  the  child  from  my  arms,  as 
I  was  bending  over  her,  thanked  me  in  a  voice  that  made  my 
heart  stand  still ;  I  looked  up  and  beheld  Louise. 

"  It  was  not  till  I  had  convulsively  clasped  her  hand  and 
uttered  her  name  that  she  recognized  me.  I  was,  no  doubt,  the 
more  altered  of  the  two — prosperity  and  happiness  had  left 


THE  PARISIANS. 


299 


little  trace  of  the  needy,  careworn,  threadbare  student.  But  if 
she  were  the  last  to  recognize,  she  was  the  first  to  recover  self- 
possession.  The  expression  of  her  face  became  hard  and  set. 
I  cannot  pretend  to  repeat  with  any  verbal  accuracy  the  brief 
converse  that  took  place  between  us,  as  she  placed  the  child  on 
the  grass  bank  beside  the  path,  bade  her  stay  there  quietly,  and 
walked  on  with  me  some  paces,  as  if  she  did  not  wish  the  child 
to  hear  what  was  said. 

"  The  purport  of  what  passed  was  to  this  effect :  She  refused 
to  explain  the  certificates  of  her  death,  further  than  that,  be- 
coming aware  of  what  she  called  the  '  persecution*  of  the  adver- 
tisements issued  and  inquiries  instituted,  she  had  caused  those 
documents  to  be  sent  to  the  address  given  in  the  advertisement 
in  order  to  terminate  all  further  molestation.  But  how  they 
could  have  been  obtained,  or  by  what  art  so  ingeniously  forged 
as  to  deceive  the  acuteness  of  a  practised  lawyer,  I  know 
not  to  this  day.  She  declared,  indeed,  that  she  was  now  happy,  in 
easy  circumstances,  and  that  if  I  wished  to  make  some  repa- 
ration for  the  wrong  I  had  done  her,  it  would  be  to  leave  her  in 
peace  ;  and  in  case — which  was  not  likely — we  ever  met  again, 
;:o  regard  and  treat  her  as  a  stranger;  that  she,  on  her  part, 
never  would  molest  me,  and  that  the  certified  death  of  Louise 
Duval  left  me  as  free  to  marry  again  as  she  considered  herself 
to  be. 

"  My  mind  was  so  confused,  so  bewildered,  while  she  thus 
talked,  that  1  did  not  attempt  to  interrupt  her.  The  blow  had 
so  crushed  me  that  I  scarcely  struggled  under  it ;  only,  as  she 
turned  tc  leave  me,  I  suddenly  recollected  that  the  child,  when 
taken  from  my  arms,  had  called  her  ^  Ma  man,'  and  judging  by 
the  apparent  age  of  the  child,  it  must  have  been  born  but  a  few 
months  after  Louise  had  left  me — that  it  must  be  mine.  And 
so,  in  my  dreary  woe,  I  faltered  out,  '  But  what  of  your  infant  ? 
Surely  that  has  on  me  a  claim  that  you  relinquish  for  yourself. 
You  were  not  unfaithful  to  me  while  you  deemed  you  were  my 
wife  ? ' 

"  '  Heavens  !  c^n  you  insult  me  by  such  a  doubt  ?  No  ! 
she  cried  out,  impulsively  and  haughtily.  'But,  as  I  was  not 
legally  your  v/ife,  the  child  is  not  legally  yours  ;  it  is  mine,  and 
only  mine.  Nevertheless,  if  you  wish  to  claim  it,' — here  she 
paused,  as  in  doubt.  I  saw  at  once  that  she  was  prepared  to 
resign  to  me  the  child  if  I  had  urged  her  to  do  so,  I  must  own 
with  a  pang  of  remorse,  that  I  recoiled  from  such  a  proprosal. 
What  could  I  do  with  the  child  ?  How  explain  to  my  wife  the 
cause  of  my  interest  in  it  ?     If  only  a  natural  child  of  mine,  J 


300 


THE  PARISIANS. 


should  have  shrunk  from  owning  to  Janet  a  youthful  error.  But, 
as  it  was, — the  child  by  a  former  marriage — the  former  wife  still 
living  !  —  my  blood  ran  cold  with  dread.  And  if  I  did  take  the 
child — invent  what  story  I  might  as  to  its  parentage,  should  I 
not  expose  myself,  expose  Janet,  to  terrible  constant  danger  ? 
The  mother's  natural  affection  might  urge  her  at  any  time  to 
seek  tidings  of  the  child,  and  in  so  doing  she  might  easily  dis« 
cover  my  new  name,  and,  perhaps  years  hence,  establish  on  me 
her  own  claim.  -- 

"No,  I  could  not  risk  such  perils.  I  replied,  sullenly, 
'You  say  rightly;  the  child  is  yours — only  yours.'  I  was  about 
to  add  an  offer  of  pecuniary  provision  for  ir,  but  Louise  had 
already  turned  scornfully  towards  the  bank  on  which  she  had 
left  the  infant.  I  saw  her  snatch  from  the  child's  hand  some 
wild-flowers  the  poor  thing  had  been  gathering;  and  how  often 
have  I  thought  of  the  rude  way  in  wliich  she  did  it  !  —not  as  a 
mother  who  loves  her  child.  Just  then  oiher  passengers  ap- 
peared on  the  road — two  of  them  I  knew — an  English  couple 
very  intimate  with  Lady  Janet  and  myself.  They  stopped  to 
accost  me,  while  Louise  passed  by  with  the  infant  towards  the 
town.  I  turned  in  the  opposite  direction  and  strove  to  collect 
my  thoughts.  Terrible  as  was  the  discovery  thus  suddenly 
made,  it  was  evident  that  Louise  had  as  strong  an  interest  as 
myself  to  conceal  it.  There  was  little  chance  that  it  would 
ever  be  divulged.  Her  dress  and  that  of  the  child  were  those 
of  persons  in  the  richer  classes  of  life.  After  all,  doubtless,  the 
child  needed  not  pecuniary  assistance  fr3m  me,  and  was  surely 
best  off  under  the  mother's  care.  Thus  I  sought  fo  comfort 
and  to  delude  myself. 

"The  next  day  Janet  and  I  left  Aix-la-Chapelle  and  re- 
turned to  England.  But  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  banish  the 
dreadful  thought  that  Janet  was  not  legally  my  wife;  that  could 
she  even  guess  the  secret  lodged  in  my  breast  she  would  be 
lost  to  me  forever,  even  though  she  died  of  the  separation 
(you  know  well  how  tenderly  she  loved  me).  My  nature  under- 
went a  silent  revolution.  I  had  previousl);  cherished  the  am- 
bition common  to  most  men  in  public  life — the  ambition  for 
fame,  for  place,  for  power.  That  ambition  left  me;  1  shrank 
from  the  thought  of  becoming  too  well  known,  lest  Louise  or 
her  connections,  as  yet  ignorant  of  my  new  name,  might  more 
easily  learn  what  the  world  knew — viz.,  that  I  had  previously 
borne  another  name — the  name  of  her  husband —  and  finding 
me  wealthy  and  honored,  might  hereafter  be  tempted  to  claim 
for  herself  or  her  daughter  the  ties  she  abjured  for  both  while 


THf  PARISIANS.  301 

she  deemed  me  poor  and  despised.  But  partly  my  conscience, 
partly  the  influence  of  the  angel  by  my  side  compelled  me  to 
seek  whatever  means  of  doing  good  to  others,  position  and  cir- 
cumstances placed  at  my  disposal.  I  was  alanned  when  ev^en 
such  quiet  exercise  of  mind  and  fortune  acquired  a  sort  of  cele- 
brity. How  painfully  I  shrank  from  it !  The  world  attributed 
my  dread  of  publicity  to  unaffected  modesty.  The  world  prais 
ed  me,  and  I  knew  myself  an  impostor.  But  the  years  stole 
on.  I  heard  no  more  of  Louise  or  her  child,  and  my  fears 
gradually  subsided.  Yet  I  was  consoled  when  the  two  children 
borne  to  me  by  Janet  died  in  their  infancy.  Had  they  lived, 
who  can  tell  whether  something  might  not  have  transpired  to 
prove  them  illegitimate  .'' 

"  I  must  hasten  on.  At  last  came  the  great  and  crushing 
calamity  of  my  life  :  I  lost  the  woman  who  was  my  all  in  all. 
At  least  she  was  spared  the  discovery  that  would  have  deprived 
me  of  the  right  of  tending  her  deathbed  and  leaving  within  her 
tomb  a  place  vacant  for  myself. 

"But  after  the  first  agonies  that  followed  her  loss,  the  con- 
science I  had  so  long  sought  to  tranquillize  became  terribly  re- 
proachful. Louise  had  forfeited  all  right  to  my  consideration, 
but  my  guiltless  child  had  not  done  so.  Did  it  live  still  ?  If  so, 
was  it  not  the  heir  to  my  fortunes — the  only  child  left  to  me  ? 
True,  I  have  the  absolute  right  to  dispose  of  my  wealth  :  it  is 
not  in  land  ;  it  is  not  entailed  ;  but  was  not  the  daughter  I  had 
forsaken,  morally  the  first  claimant  ?  was  no  reparation  due  to 
her  ?  You  remember  that  my  physician  ordered  me,  some  little 
time  after  your  aunt's  death,  to  seek  a  temporary  change  of 
scene.  I  obeyed  and  went  away  no  one  knew  whither.  Well, 
I  repaired  to  Paris.  There  I  sought  M.  Sartiges,  the  avoue. 
I  found  he  had  been  long  dead,  I  discovered  his  executors, 
and  inquired  if  any  papers  or  correspondence  between  Richard 
Macdonald  and  himself  many  years  ago  were  in  existence.  All 
such  documents,  with  others  not  returned  to  correspondents  at 
his  decease,  had  been  burned  by  his  desire.  No  possible  clue 
to  the  whereabouts  of  Louise,  should  any  have  been  gained 
since  I  last  saw  her,  was  left.  What  then  to  do  I  knew  not.  1 
did  not  dare  to  make  inquiries  through  strangers,  which,  if  dis- 
covering my  child,  might  also  bring  to  light  a  marria.ge  thai 
would  have  dishonored  the  memory  of  my  lost  saint.  I  return- 
ed to  England  feeling  that  my  days  were  numbered.  It  is  to 
you  that  I  transmit  the  task  of  those  researches  which  I  could 
not  institute.  I-  bequeath  to  you,  v/ith  the  exception  of  trifling 
legacies^  and  donations  to  public  charities,  the  whole  of  my  for- 


302  THE  PARISIANS. 

fune.  But  you  will  understand  by  this  letter  that  it  is  to  be 
held  on  a  trust  which  I  cannot  specify  in  my  will.  1  could  not, 
without  dishonoring  the  venerated  name  of  your  aunt,  indicate 
as  the  heiress  of  my  wealth  a  child  by  a  wife  living  at  the  time 
I  married  Janet.  I  cannot  form  any  words  for  such  a  device 
which  would  not  arouse  gossip  and  suspicion  and  furnish  ulti- 
mately a  clue  to  the  discovery  I  would  shun.  I  calculate  that, 
after  all  deductions,  the  sum  that  will  devolve  to  you  will  be 
about  ^220,000.  That  which  I  mean  to  be  absolutely  and  at 
once  yours  is  the  comparatively  trifling  legacy  of  ;^2 0,0:0. 
If  Louise's  child  be  not  living,  or  if  you  find  full  reason  to  sup- 
pose that,  despite  appearances,  the  child  is  not  mine,  the  whole 
of  my  fortune  lapses  to  you  ;  but  should  Louise  be  surviving  and 
need  pecuniary  aid,  you  will  contrive  that  she  may  have  such  an 
annuity  as  you  may  deem  fitting,  without  learning  whence  it 
comes.  You  perceive  that  it  is  your  object  if  possible,  even 
more  than  mine,  to  preserve  free  from  slur  the  name  and  mem- 
ory of  her  who  was  to  you  a  second  mother.  All  ends  we  desire 
would  be  accomplished  could  you,  on  discovering  my  lost  child, 
feel  that  without  constrainingyour  inclinations, you  could  make  her 
yowx  wife.  She  would  then  naturally  share  with  you  my  fortune 
and  all  the  claims  of  justice  and  duty  would  be  quietly  appeased. 
She  would  now  be  of  age  suitable  to  yours.  When  I  saw  her 
at  Aix  she  gave  promise  of  inheriting  no  small  share  of  her 
mother's  beauty.  If  Louise's  assurance  of  her  easy  circum- 
stances were  true,  her  daughter  has  possibly  been  educated 
and  reared  with  tenderness  and  care.  You  have  already  as- 
sured me  that  you  have  no  prior  attachment.  But  if,  on  dis- 
covering this  child,  you  find  her  already  married,  or  one  whom 
you  could  not  love  or  esteem,  I  leave  it  implicitly  to  your  honor 
and  judgment  to  detemiine  what  share  of  the  _;^2oo,ooo 
left  in  your  hands  should  be  consigned  to  her.  She  may  have 
been  corrupted  by  her  mother's  principles.  She  may — Heaven 
forbid! — have  fallen  into  evil  courses,  and  wealth  would  be 
misspent  in  her  hands.  In  that  case  a  competence  sufficing 
to  save  her  from  future  degradation,  from  the  temptations  of 
poverty,  would  be  all  that  I  desire  you  to  devote  from  my 
wealth.  On  the  contrary,  you  may  find  in  her  one,  who,  in  all 
respects,  ought  to  be  my  chief  inheritor.  All  this  I  leave  in  full 
confidence  to  you,  as  being,  of  all  the  men  I  know,  the  one  who 
unites  the  highest  sense  of  honor  with  the  largest  share  of  prac- 
tical sense  and  knowledge  of  life.  'J'he  main  difficulty,  what- 
ever this  lost  girl  may  derive  from  my  substance,  will  be  in 
devising  some  means  to  convey  it  to  her  so  that  neither  she  roi 


THE  PARISIANS.  303 

those  around  her  may  trace  the  bequest  to  me.  She  can  never 
be  acknowledeged  as  my  child — never  !  Your  reverence  for 
the  beloved  dead  forbids  that.  This  difficulty  your  clear  strong 
sense  must  overcome  :  mine  is  blinded  by  the  shades  of  death. 
You  too  will  deliberately  consider  how  to  institute  the  inquiries 
after  mother  and  child  so  as  not  to  betray  our  secret.  Tliis 
will  require  great  caution.  You  will  probably  commence  at 
Paris,  through  the  agency  of  the  police,  to  whom  you  will  be 
very  guarded  in  your  communications.  It  is  most  unfortunate  that 
I  have  no  miniature  of  Louise,  and  that  any  description  of  her 
must  be  so  vague  that  it  may  not  serve  to  discover  her;  but, 
such  as  it  is,  it  may  prevent  your  mistaking  for  her  some  other 
of  her  name.  Louise  was  above  the  common  height,  and 
looked  taller  than  she  was,  with  the  peculiar  combination  of 
very  dark  hair,  very  fair  complexion,  and  light  gray  eyes.  She 
would  now  be  somewhat  under  the  age  of  forty.  She  was  not 
without  accomplishments,  derived  from  the  companionship  with 
her  father.  She  spoke  English  fluently ;  she  drew  with  taste, 
and  even  with  talent.  You  will  see  the  prudence  of  confining 
research  at  first  to  Louise,  rather  than  to  the  child  who  is  the 
principal  object  of  it ;  for  it  is  not  till  you  can  ascertain  what 
has  become  of  her  that  you  can  trust  the  accuracy  of  any  in- 
formation respecting  the  daughter,  whom  I  assume,  perhaps 
after  all  erroneously,  to  be  mine.  Though  Louise  talked  with 
such  levity  of  holding  herself  free  to  marry,  the  birth  of  her 
child  might  be  sufficient  injury  to  her  reputation  to  become  a 
serious  obstacle  to  such  second  nuptials,  not  having  taken 
formal  steps  to  annul  her  marriage  with  myself.  If  not  thus 
remarried,  there  would  be  no  reason  why  she  should  not  resume 
her  maiden  name  of  Duval,  as  she  did  in  the  signature  of  her 
letter  to  me,  finding  that  I  had  ceased  to  molest  her  by  the  in- 
quiries to  elude  which  she  had  invented  the  false  statement  of 
her  death.  It  seems  probable,  therefore,  that  she  is  residing 
somewhere  in  Paris,  and  in  the  name  of  Duval.  Of  course  the 
burden  of  uncertainty  as  to  your  future  cannot  be  left  to  oppress 
you  for  an  indefinite  length  of  time.  If  at  the  end  say,  of  two 
years,  your  researches  have  wholly  failed,  consider  three-fourths 
of  my  whole  fortune  to  have  passed  to  you,  and  put  by  the 
fourth  to  accumulate,  should  the  child  afterwards  be  discovered 
and  satisfy  your  judgment  as  to  her  claims  on  me  as  her  father. 
Should  she  not,  it  will  be  a  reserve-fund  for  your  own  children. 
But  oh,  if  my  child  could  be  found  in  time  !  and  oh,  if  she  be 
all  that  could  win  your  heart,  and  be  the  wife  you  would  select 


304  ^^^^  PARISIAA^S. 

from  free  choice  !     I  can  say  no  more.     Pity  me,  and  judge 
leniently  of  Janet's  husband. 

"R.  K." 

The  key  to  Graham's  conduct  is  now  given; — the  deep  sor- 
row that  took  him  to  the  tomb  of  the  aunt  he  so  revered,  and 
whose  honored  memory  was  subjected  to  so  great  a  risk  ;  the 
sliglitness  of  cliange  in  his  expenditure  and  mode  of  life,  aftei 
an  inheritance  supposed  to  be  so  ample  ;  the  abnegation  of  his 
political  ambition  ;  the  subject  of  his  inquiries,  and  the  cautious 
reserve  imposed  upon  them  ;  above  all,  the  position  towards 
Isaura  in  which  he  was  so  cruelly  placed. 

Certainly,  his  first  thought  in  revolving  the  conditions  of  his 
trust  had  been  that  of  marriage  with  this  lost  child  of  Richard 
King's  should  she  be  discovered  single,  disengaged,  and  not  re- 
pulsive to  his  inclinations.  Tacitly  he  subscribed  to  the  reason  for 
the  course  alleged  by  the  deceased.  It  was  the  simplest  and 
readiest  plan  of  uniting  justice  to  the  rightful  inheritor  with 
care  for  a  secret  so  important  to  the  honor  of  his  aunt,  of 
Richard  King  himself — his  benefactor, — of  the  illustrious  house 
from  which  Lady  Janet  had  sprung.  Perhaps,  too,  the  consid- 
eration that  by  this  course  a  fortune  so  useful  to  his  career  was 
secured  was  not  without  influence  on  the  mind  of  a  man  natu- 
ally  ambitious.  But  on  that  consideration  he  forbade  himself 
to  dwell.  He  put  it  away  from  him  as  a  sin.  Yet,  to  marriage 
with  any  one  else,  until  his  mission  was  fulfilled  and  the  uncer- 
tainty as  to  the  extent  of  his  fortune  was  dispelled,  there  inter- 
posed grave  practical  obstacles.  How  could  he  honestly 
present  himself  to  a  girl  and  to  her  parents  in  the  light  of  a 
rich  man,  when  in  reality  he  might  be  but  a  poor  man  ?  how 
could  he  refer  to  any  lawyer  the  conditions  which  rendered  im- 
possible any  settlement  that  touched  a  shilling  of  the  large 
sum  which  at  any  day  he  might  have  to  transfer  to  another  ? 
Still,  when  once  fully  conscious  how  deep  was  the  love  with 
which  Isaura  had  inspired  him,  the  idea  of  wedlock  with  the 
daughter  of  Richard  King,  if  she  yet  lived  and  was  single  be- 
came inadmissible.  The  orphan  condition  of  the  young  Italian 
smoothed  away  the  obstacles  to  proposals  of  marriage  which 
would  have  embarrassed  his  addresses  to  girls  of  his  own  rank 
and  with  parents  who  would  have  demanded  settlements.  And 
if  he  had  found  Isaura  alone  on  that  day  on  which  he  had  seen 
her  last,  he  would  doubtless  have  yielded  to  the  voice  of  his 
heart,  avowed  his  love,  wooed  her  own,  and  committed  both  to 
the  tie  of  betrothal.     We  have  seen  how  rudely  such  yearnings 


THE  PARISIANS.  305 

of  heart  were  repelled  on  that  last  interview.  His  English  pre- 
judices were  so  deeply  rooted,  that  even  if  he  had  been  wholly  free 
from  the  trust  bequeathed  to  him,  he  would  have  recoiled  from 
marriage  with  a  girl  who,  in  the  ardor  for  notoriety,  could  link 
herself  with  such  associates  as  Gustave  Rameau,  by  habits  a 
Bohemian  and  by  principles  a  Socialist. 

In  flying  from  Paris,  he  embraced  the  resolve  to  banish  all 
thought  of  wedding  Isaura  and  to  devote  himself  sternly  to  the 
task  which  had  so  sacred  a  claim  upon  him.  Not  that  he  could 
endure  the  idea  of  marrying  another,  even  if  the  lost  heiress 
should  be  all  that  his  heart  could  have  worshipped,  had  that 
heart  been  his  own  to  give  ;  but  he  was  impatient  of  the  burden 
heaped  on  him, — of  the  fortune  which  might  not  be  his,  of  the 
uncertainty  which  paralyzed  all  his  ambitious  schemes  for  the 
future. 

Yet,  strive  as  he  would — and  no  man  could  strive  more 
resolutely — he  could  not  succeed  in  banishing  the  image  of 
Isaura.  It  was  with  him  always  ;  and  with  it  a  sense  of  irre- 
parable loss,  of  a  terrible  void,  of  a  pining  anguish. 

And  the  success  of  his  inquiries  at  Aix-la-Chapelle,  while 
sufficient  to  detain  him  in  the  place,  was  so  slight,  and  advanced 
by  such  slow  degrees,  that  it  furnished  no  continued  occupation 
to  his  restless  mind.  M.  Renard  was. acute  and  painstaking. 
But  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  obtain  any  trace  of  a  Parisian 
visitor  to  so  popular  a  Spa  so  many  years  ago.  The  name 
Duval,  too,  was  so  common,  that  at  Aix,  as  we  have  seen  at 
Paris,  time  was  wasted  in  the  chase  of  a  Duval  who  proved  not 
to  be  the  lost  Louise.  At  last  M.  Renard  chanced  on  a  house 
in  which,  in  the  year  1849,  two  ladies  from  Paris  had  lodged 
for  three  weeks.  One  was  named  Madame  Duval,  the  other 
Madame  Marigny.  They  were  both  young,  both  ver)'  handsome, 
and  much  of  the  same  height  and  coloring.  But  Madame 
Marigny  was  the  handsomer  of  the  two.  Madame  Duval  fie- 
quented  the  gaming-tables,  and  was  apparently  of  a  very  lively 
temper.  Madame  Marigny  lived  very  quietly,  rarely  or  never 
stirred  out,  and  seemed  in  delicate  health.  She,  however, 
quitted  the  apartment  somewhat  abruptly,  and,  to  the  best  of 
the  lodging-house  keeper's  recollection,  took  rooms  in  the 
country  near  Aix — she  could  not  remember  where.  About  two 
months  after  the  departure  of  Madame  Marigny,  Madame 
Duval  also  left  Aix,  and  in  company  with  a  French  gentleman 
who  had  visited  her  much  of  late — a  handsome  man  of  striking 
appearance.  The  lodging-house  keeper  did  not  know  what  or 
who  he  was.     She  remembered  that  he  used  to  be  announced 


3o6 


THE  PARISIANS. 


to  Madame  Duval  by  the  name  of  M.  Achille.  Madame  Duval 
had  never  been  seen  again  by  the  lodging-house  keeper  after 
she  had  left.  But  Madame  Marigny  she  had  once  seen,  nearly 
five  years  after  she  had  quitted  the  lodgings — seen  her  by  chance 
at  the  railway-station,  recognized  her  at  once,  and  accosted 
her,  offering  her  the  old  apartment.  Madame  Marigny  had, 
however,  briefly  replied  that  she  was  only  at  Aix  for  a  few  hours, 
and  should  quit  it  the  same  day. 

The  inquiry  now  turned  towards  Madame  Marigny.  The 
date  in  which  the  lodging-house  keeper  had  last  seen  her  coin- 
cided with  the  year  in  which  Richard  King  had  met  Louise. 
Possibly,  therefore,  she  might  have  accompanied  the  latter  to 
Aix  at  that  time,  and  could,  if  found,  give  information  as  to  her 
subsequent  history  and  present  whereabouts. 

After  a  tedious  search  throughout  all  the  environs  of  Aix, 
Graham  himself  came,  by  the  merest  accident,  upon  the  vestiges 
of  Louise's  friend.  He  had  been  wandering  alone  in  the  country 
round  Aix,  when  a  violent  thunderstorm  drove  him  to  ask 
shelter  in  the  house  of  a  small  farmer,  situated  in  a  field,  a 
little  off  the  byway  which  he  had  taken.  While  waiting  for  the 
cessation  of  the  storm,  and  drying  his  clothes  by  the  tire  in  a 
room  that  adjoined  the  kitchen,  he  entered  into  conversation 
with  the  farmer's  wife,  a  pleasant,  well-mannered  person,  and 
made  some  complimentary  observation  on  a  small  sketch  of  the 
house  in  water-colors  that  hung  upon  the  wall. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  farmer's  wife,  "  that  was  done  by  a  French 
lady  who  lodged  here  many  years  ago.  She  drew  very  prettily, 
poor  thing." 

"  A  lady  who  lodged  here  many  years  ago — how  many.-'  " 

"  Well,  I  guess  somewhere  about  twenty." 

"  Ah,  indeed  !     Was  it  a  Madame  Marigny  .?  " 

"  Bon  Dicu  !  That  was  indeed  her  name.  Did  you  know 
her  ?  I  should  be  so  glad  to  hear  she  is  well  and — I  hope — 
happy }  " 

"  1  do  not  know  where  she  is  now,  and  am  making  inquiries 
to  ascertain.  Pray  help  me.  How  long  did  Madame  Marigny 
lodge  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  pretty  well  two  months ;  yes,  two  months.  She 
left  a  month  after  her  confinement." 

"  She  was  confined  here  .''  " 

"Yes.  When  she  first  came,  I  had  no  idea  that  she  was 
enceinte.  She  had  a  pretty  figure,  and  no  one  would  have 
guessed  it,  in  the  way  she  wore  her  shawl.  Indeed,  I  only  be- 
gan to  suspect  it  a  few  days  before  it  happened  ;  and  that  was 


THE  PARISIANS. 


307 


SO  suddenly  that  all  was  happily  over  before  we  could  send 
for  the  accoucheur^ 

"  And  the  child  ? — A  girl  or  a  boy  ?  " 

"  A  girl — the  prettiest  baby." 

"  Did  she  take  the  child  with  her  when  she  went  ?  " 

"  No ;  it  was  put  out  to  nurse  with  a  niece  of  my  husband's 
who  was  confined  about  the  same  time.  Madame  paid  liberally 
in  advance,  and  continued  to  send  money  half-yearly  till  she 
came  herself  and  took  away  the  little  girl." 

"  When  was  that  ?  a  little  less  than  five  years  aftei  she  had 
left  it  ? " 

"  Why,  you  know  all  about  it,  Monsieur ;  yes,  not  quite  five 
years  after.  She  did  not  come  to  see  me,  which  I  thought  un- 
kind, but  she  sent  me,  through  my  niece-in-law,  a  real  gold 
watch  and  a  shawl.  Poor  dear  lady — for  lady  she  was  all  over, 
— with  proud  ways,  and  would  not  bear  to  be  questioned.  But 
I  am  sure  she  was  none  of  your  French  light  ones,  but  an 
honest  wife  like  myself,  though  she  never  said  so." 

"  And  have  you  no  idea  where  she  was  all  the  five  years  she 
was  away,  or  where  she  went  after  reclaiming  her  child  ? " 

"  No,  indeed,  Monsieur." 

"  But  her  remittances  for  the  infant  must  have  been  made 
by  letters,  and  the  letters  would  have  postmarks  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  daresay  :  I  am  no  scholar  myself.  But  suppose 
you  see  Marie  Hubert,  that  is  my  niece-in-law  :  perhaps  she 
has  kept  the  envelopes." 

•'  Where  does  Madame  Hubert  live  1 " 

"  It  is  just  a  league  off  by  the  short  path  ;  you  can't  miss 
the  way.  Her  husband  has  a  bit  of  land  of  his  own,  but  he  is 
also  a  carrier — '^Max  Hubert,  Carrier,'  written  over  the  door, 
just  opposite  the  first  church  you  get  to.  The  rain  has  ceased, 
but  it  may  be  too  far  for  you  to  day." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.     Many  thanks." 

"  But  if  you  find  out  the  dear  lady  and  see  her,  do  tell  her 
how  pleased  I  should  be  to  hear  good  news  of  her  and  the 
Ihlle  one." 

Graham  strode  on  under  the  clearing  skies  to  the  house  indi- 
cated. He  found  Madame  Hubert  at  home,  and  ready  to  answer 
all  questions  ;  but  alas  !  she  had  not  the  envelopes.  Madame 
Marigny,  on  removing  the  child,  had  asked  for  all  the  envelopes 
or  letters,  and  carried  them  away  with  her.  Madame  Hubert, 
who  was  as  little  of  a  scholar  as  her  aunt-in-law  was,  had  never 
paid  much  attention  to  tlie  postmarks  on  the  envelopes  ;  and 


3o8 


THE  PARISIANS. 


the  only  one  that  she  did  remember  was  the  first,  that  contained 
a  bank-note,  and  that  postmark  was  "  Vienna." 

"  But  did  not  Madame  Marigny's  letters  ever  give  you  an 
address  to  which  to  write  with  news  of  her  child  ?  " 

"  1  don't  think  she  cared  much  for  her  child,  Monsieur. 
She  kissed  it  very  coldly  when  she  came  to  take  it  away.  J 
told  the  poor  infant  that  that  was  her  own  mamma;  and  Mad- 
ame said,  '  Yes,  you  may  call  me  mamma,'  in  a  tone  of  voice — 
well,  not  at  all  like  that  of  a  mother.  She  brought  with  her  a 
little  bag  which  contained  some  fine  clothes  for  the  child,  and 
was  very  impatient  till  the  child  had  got  them  on." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  it  was  the  same  lady  who  left  the 
child  ?  " 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  doubt  of  that.  She  was  certainly  tresbelle, 
but  I  did  not  fancy  her  as  aunt  did.  She  carried  her  head  very 
high,  and  looked  rather  scornful.  However,  I  must  say  she 
behaved  very  generously." 

"  Still,  you  have  not  answered  my  question  whether  her  let- 
ters contained  no  address." 

"  She  never  wrote  more  than  two  letters.  One  inclosing 
the  first  remittance  was  but  a  few  lines,  saying  that  if  the  child 
was  well  and  thriving  I  need  not  write,  but  if  it  died  or  became 
dangerously  ill  I  might  at  any  time  write  a  line  to  Madame   M 

,  Poste  Restante,   Vienna.     She  was  travelling  about,   but 

the  letter  would  be  sure  to  reach  her  sooner  or  later.  The 
only  other  letter  I  had  was  to  apprise  me  that  she  was  coming  to 
remove  the  child,  and  might  be  expected  in  three  days  after  the 
receipt  of  her  letter." 

"  And  all  the  other  communications  from  her  were  merely 
remittances  in  blank  envelopes  ?  " 

"  Exactly  so," 

Graham,  finding  he  could  learn  no  more,  took  his  depart- 
ure. On  his  way  home,  meditating  the  new  idea  that  his  adven- 
ture that  day  suggested,  he  resolved  to  proceed  at  once,  accom- 
panied by  Renard,  to  Munich,  and  there  learn  what  particulars 
could  be  yet  ascertained  respecting  those  certificates  of  the  death 
of  Louise  Duval,  to  which  (sharing  Richard  King's  very  natural 
belief  that  they  had  been  skilfully  forged)  he  had  hitherto  at- 
tached no  importance. 


THE  PARISIA.YS. 


s'^g 


CHAPTER  VII. 

No  satisfactory  result  attended  the  inquiries  made  at  INfu- 
nich,  save  indeeti  this  certainty — the  certificates  attesting  the 
decease  of  some  person  calling  herself  Louise  Duval  had 
not  been  forged.  They  were  indubitably  genuine.  A  lady 
bearing  that  name  had  arrived  at  one  of  the  principal  hotels 
late  in  the  evening,  and  had  there  taken  handsome  rooms. 
She  was  attended  by  no  servant,  but  accompanied  by  a  gen- 
tleman, who  however,  left  the  hotel  as  soon  as  he  had  seen 
her  lodged  to  her  satisfaction.  The  books  of  the  hotel  still 
retained  the  entry  of  her  name — Madame  Duval,  Francaise 
rentere.  On  comparing  the  handwriting  of  this  entry  with 
the  letter  from  Richard  King's  tirst  wife,  Graham  found  it  to 
differ  :  but  then  it  was  not  certain,  though  probable,  that  the 
entry  had  been  written  by  the  alleged  Madame  Duval  herself. 
She  was  visited  the  next  day  by  the  same  gentleman  who  had 
accompanied  her  on  arriving.  He  dined  and  spent  the 
evening  with  her.  But  no  one  at  the  hotel  could  remember 
what  was  the  gentleman's  name,  nor  even  if  he  were  an- 
nounced by  any  nanie.  He  never  called  again.  Two  days 
afterwards,  Madame  Duval  was  taken  ill ;  a  doctor  was 
sent  for,  and  attended  her  till  her  death.  This  doctor  was 
easily  found.  He  remembered  the  case  perfectly — congestion 
of  the  lungs,  apparently  caused  by  cold  caught  on  her  journey. 
Fatal  symptoms  rapidly  manifested  themselves,  and  she  died 
on  the  third  day  from  the  seizure.  She  was  a  young  and 
handsome  woman.  He  had  asked  her  during  her  short  illness 
if  he  should  not  write  to  her  friends — if  there  were  no  one 
she  would  wish  to  be  sent  for.  She  replied  that  there  was 
only  one  friend,  to  whom  she  had  already  written,  and  who 
would  arrive  in  a  day  or  two.  And,  on  inquiring  it  appeared 
that  she  had  written  such  a  letter,  and  taken  it  herself  to  the 
post  on  the  morning  of  the  day  she  was  taken  ill. 

She  had  in  her  purse  not  a  large  sum,  but  money  enough 
to  cover  all  her  expenses,  including  those  of  her  funeral,  which, 
according  to  the  law  in  force  at  the  place,  followed  very 
quickly  on  her  decease.     The  arrival  of  the  friend  to  whom 


210  THE  PARISIANS. 

she  had  written  being  expected,  her  effects  were,  in  the  mean, 
while,  sealed  up.  The  day  after  her  death  a  letter  arrived 
for  her,  which  was  opened.  It  was  evidently  written  by  a 
man,  and  apparently  by  a  lover.  It  expressed  an  impassioned 
regret  that  the  writer  was  unavoidably  prevented  returning  to 
Munich  so  soon  as  he  had  hoped,  but  trusted  to  see  his  dear 
boutoti  de  rose  in  the  course  of  the  following  week ;  it  was  only 
signed  Achille,  and  gave  no  address.  Two  days  after,  a  lady, 
also  young  and  handsome,  arrived  at  the  hotel,  and  inquired 
for  Madame  Duval.  She  was  greatly  shocked  at  hearing  of 
her  decease.  When  sufficiently  recovered  to  bear  being  ques- 
tioned as  to  Madame  Duval's  relations  and  position,  she  ap- 
peared confused  ;  said,  after  much  pressing,  that  she  was  no 
relation  to  the  deceased  ;  that  she  believed  Madame  Duval  had 
no  relations  with  whom  she  was  on  friendly  tenns,  at  least 
she  had  never  heard  her  speak  of  any  ;  and  that  her  own  acquain- 
tance with  the  deceased,  though  cordial,  was  very  recent. 
She  could  or  w^ould  not  give  any  clue  to  the  writer  of  the  let- 
signed  Achille,  and  she  herself  quitted  Munich  that  evening, 
leaving  the  impression  that  Madame  Duval  had  been  one  of 
those  ladies  who,  in  adopting  a  course  of  life  at  variance  with 
conventional  regulations,  are  repudiated  by  their  relations,  and 
probably  drop  even  their  rightful  names. 

Achille  never  appeared ;  but  a  few  days  after,  a  lawyer  at 
Munich  received  a  letter  from  another  at  Vienna,  requesting, 
in  compliance  with  a  client's  instructions,  the  formal  certificates 
of  Louise  Duval's  death.  These  were  sent  as  directed,  and 
nothing  more  about  the  ill-fated  woman  was  heard  of.  After 
the  expiration  of  the  time  required  by  law,  the  seals  were  re- 
moved from  the  effects,  which  consisted  of  two  malles  and  a 
dressing-case.  But  they  only  contained  the  articels  appertain- 
ing to  a  lady's  wardrobe  or  toilet.  No  letters — not  even  an- 
other note  from  Achille — no  clue,  in  short,  to  the  family  or  an- 
tecedents of  the  deceased.  What  then  had  become  of  these 
effects,  no  one  at  the  hotel  could  give  a  clear  or  satisfactory 
account.  It  w'as  said  by  the  mistress  of  the  hotel,  rather  sullenly 
that  they  had,  she  supposed,  been  sold  by  her  predecessor,  and 
by  order  of  the  authorities,  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor. 

If  the  lady  who  had  represented  herself  as  Louise  Duval's 
acquaintance  had  given  her  own  name,  which  doubtless  she  did, 
no  one  recollected  it.  It  was  not  entered  in  the  books  of  the 
hotel,  for  she  had  not  lodged  there  ;  nor  did  it  appear  that  she 
had  allowed  time  for  formal  examination  by  the  civil  authori- 
ties.    In  fact,  it  was  clear  that  poor  Louise   Duval  had  beea 


THE  PARISIANS.  311 

considered  as  an  adventuress  by  the  hotel-keeper  and  the  medi- 
cal attendant  at  Munich  ;  and  her  death  had  excited  so  little 
interest,  that  it  was  strange  that  even  so  many  particulars 
respecting  it  could  be  gleaned. 

After  a  prolonged  but  fruitless  stay  at  Munich,  Graham  and 
M.  Renard  repaired  to  Vienna  ;  there,  at  least,  Madame  Ma- 
rigny  had  given  an  address,  and  there  she  might  be  heard  of. 

At  Vienna,  however,  no  research  availed  to  discover  a  trace, 
of  any  such  person,  and  in  despair  Graham  returned  to  En- 
gland in  the  January  of  1870,  and  left  the  further  prosecution  of 
his  inquiries  to  M.  Renard,  who,  though  obliged  to  transfer 
himself  to  Paris  for  a  time,  promised  that  he  would  leave  no 
stone  unturned  for  the  discovery  of  Madame  Mariguy  ;  and 
Graham  trusted  to  that  assurance  when  M.  Renard,  rejecting 
half  of  the  large  gratuity  offered  him,  added,  '•'•  Je  suis  Francais  ; 
this  with  me  has  ceased  to  be  an  affair  of  money  ;  it  has  become 
an  affair  that  involves  my  amour-propre." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


If  Graham  Vane  had  been  before  caressed  and  courted  for 
himself,  he  was  more  than  ever  appreciated  by  polite  society, 
now  that  he  had  added  the  positive  repute  of  wealth  to  that  of 
a  promising  intellect.  Fine  ladies  said  that  Graham  Vane  was 
a  match  for  any  girl.  Eminent  politicians  listened  to  him  with 
a  more  attentive  respect,  and  invited  him  to  selecter  dinner- 
parties. His  cousin  the  Duke  urged  him  to  announce  his  can- 
didature of  the  county,  and  purchase  back,  at  least,  the  old 
Stamm-sc/iloss.  But  Graham  obstinately  refused  to  entertain 
either  proposal,  continued  to  live  as  economically  as  before  ki 
his  old  apartments,  and  bore  with  an  astonishing  meekness  of 
resignation  the  unsolicited  load  of  fashion  heaped  upon  his 
shoulders.  At  heart  he  was  restless  and  unhappy.  The  mis- 
sion bequeathed  to  him  by  Richard  King  haunted  his  thoughts 
like  a  spectre  not  to  be  exorcised.  Was  his  whole  life  to  be 
passed  in  the  weary  sustainment  of  an  imposture  which  in 
itself  was  gall  and  wormwood  to  a  nature  constitutionally  frank 
and  open  .-'  Was  he  forever  to  appear  a  rich  man  and  live  as 
a  poor  one  .''     Was  he  till  his  deathbed  to  be  deemed  a  sordid 


312  THE  PARISIANS. 

miser  whenever  he  refused  a  just  claim  on  his  supposed  wealth, 
and  to  feel  his  ambition  excluded  from  the  objects  it  earnestly 
coveted,  and  which  he  was  forced  to  appear  too  much  of  an 
Epicurean  philosopher  to  prize  ? 

More  torturing  than  all  else  to  the  man's  innermost  heart 
was  the  consciousnes  that  he  had  not  conquered,  could   not 
conquer,  the  yearning  love  with  which  Isaura  had  inspired  him, 
and  yet  that  against  such  love  all  his  reasonings,  all  his  pre- 
judices, more  stubbornly  than  ever  were   combined.     In  the 
French  newspapers  which  he  had  glanced  over  while  engaged  in 
his  researches  in   Germany — nay,  in  German  critical  journals 
themselves — he  had  seen  so  many  notices  of  the  young  author 
— highly  eulogistic,  it  is  true,  but  which  to  his  peculiar  notions 
were  more  offensive  than  if  they  had    been   sufficiently  con- 
dernnatory  of  her  work  to  discourage  her  from  its  repetition — 
notices  which  seemed  to  him  the  supreme  impertinences  which 
no  man  likes  exhibited  towards  the  woman  he  would  render  the 
chivalrous  homage  of  respect.     Evidently  this  girl  had  become 
as  much  public  property  as  if  she  had  gone  on  the  stage.  Minute 
details  of  her  personal    appearance — of  the    dimples  on   her 
cheeks — of  the   whiteness  of  her  arms — of  her  peculiar  way  of 
dressing  her  hair — anecdotes  of  her  from  childhood  (of  course 
invented,  but   how  could   Graham  know    that  ? ) — of    reasons 
why  she  had  adopted  the  profession  of  author  instead  of  that  of 
singer — of  the  sensation  she  had  created  in  certain  salons  (to 
Graham,  who  knew  Paris  so  well,  salons  in  which  he  would  not 
have  liked  his  wife  to  appear) — of  the  compliments  paid  to  her 
by  grajtd  seigjteurs  noted  for  their  liaisons  with,  ballet-dancers, 
or  by  authors  whose  genius  soared  for  beyond  the  flatnmantia 
moe?iia  of  a  world  confined  by  respect  for  one's  neighbor's  land- 
marks,— all  this,  which  belongs  to  ground  of  personal  gossip 
untouched   by  English  critics  of  female  writers — ground  espe- 
cially  favored  by   Continental   and,  I   am  grieved  to  say,   by 
American  journalists, — all  this  was  to  the  sensitive  Englishman 
much  what  the  minute  inventory  of  Egeria's  charms  would  have 
been  to   Numa   Pompilius.     The  Nymph,  hallowed  to   him   by 
secret  devotion,  was  vulgarized  by  the  noisy  hands  of  the  mob. 
and  by  the  popular  voices,  which  said,  "  We  know  more  about 
Egeria  than  you  do.  "     And  when  he  returned  to  England,  and 
met  with  old  friends  familiar  to  Parisian  life,  who  said,  "  Of 
course  you  have  read  the  Cicogna's  reman.     What  do  you  think 
of  it?     Very  fine  writing,  I  daresay,  but  above  me.     I  go  in  for 
•  Les  Mystferes  de  Paris'  or  'Monte  Christo.'     But  I  even  find 


HIE  PAKISIAiVS.  313 

George  Sand  a  bore  " — then  as  a  critic  Graham  Vane  fired  up, 
extolled  the  roman  he  would  have  given  his  ears  for  Isaura 
never  to  have  written;  but  retired  from  the  contest,  muttering 
only,  "  How  can  I — I,  Graham  Vane — how  can  I  be  such  an 
idiot — how  can  I  in  every  hour  of  tlie  twenty -four  sigh  to  myself, 
What  are  other  women  to  me  ? — Isaura,  Isaura  1'  " 


314  THE  PARISIANS, 


BOOK     III. 


CHAPTER  I. 

It  is  the  first  week  in  the  month  of  May,  1870.  Celebrities 
are  of  rapid  growth  in  the  salons  of  Paris.  Gustave  Rameau 
has  gained  the  position  for  which  he  sighed.  The  journal  he 
edits  has  increased  its  hold  on  the  public,  and  his  share  of  the 
profits  has  been  liberally  augmented  by  the  secret  proprietor, 
Rameau  is  acknowledged  as  a  power  in  literary  circles.  And 
as  critics  belonging  to  the  same  clique  praise  each  other  in 
Paris,  whatever  they  may  do  in  communities  more  rigidly  vir- 
tuous, his  poetry  has  been  declared  by  authorities  in  the  press 
to  be  superior  to  that  of  Alfred  de  Musset  in  vigor, — to  that  of 
Victor  Hugo  in  refinement ;  neither  of  which  assertions  would 
much,  perhaps,  shock  a  cultivated  understanding. 

It  is  true  that  it  (Gustave's  poetry)  has  not  gained  a  wide 
audience  among  the  public.  But  with  regard  to  poetry  nowa- 
days, there  are  plenty  of  persons  who  say,  as  Dr.  Johnson  said 
of  the  verse  of  Spratt,  "  I  would  rather  praise  it  than  read." 

At  all  events,  Rameau  was  courted  in  gay  and  brillianL  cir- 
cles, and,  following  the  general  example  of  French  litterateurs 
in  fashion,  lived  well  up  to  the  income  he  received,  had  a  de 
lightful  bachelor's  apartment,  furnished  with  artistic  effecr,  spent 
largely  on  the  adornment  of  his  person,  kept  a  coupe,  and  enter- 
tained profusely  at  the  Cafd  Anglais  and  the  Maison  Dorde.  A 
reputation  that  inspired  a  graver  and  more  unquiet  interest  had 
been  created  by  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon.  Recent  articles  in 
the  "  Sens  Commnn"  written  under  the  name  of  Pierre  Firmin, 
on  the  discussions  on  the  vexed  question  of  the  plebiscite,  had 
given  umbrage  to  the  government,  and  Rameau  had  received 
an  intimation  that  he,  as  editor,  was  responsible  for  the  comps> 


THE  PARISIANS. 


315 


sitions  of  the  contributors  to  the  journal  he  edited  ;  and  that 
though,  as  long  as  Pierre  Firmin  had  kept  his  caustic  spirit 
within  proper  bounds,  the  government  had  winked  at  the  eva- 
sion of  the  law  which  required  every  political  article  in  a  journal 
to  be  signed  by  the  real  name  of  its  author,  it  could  do  so  no 
longer.  Pierre  Firmin  was  apparently  a  nom  de plu7ne ;  if  not, 
his  identity  must  be  proved,  or  Rameau  would  pay  the  penalty 
which  his  contributor  seemed  bent  on  incurring. 

Rameau,  much  alarmed  for  the  journal  that  might  be  sus- 
pended, and  for  himself  who  might  be  imprisoned,  conveyed 
this  information  through  the  publisher  to  his  correspondent 
Pierre  Firmin,  and  received  the  next  day  an  article  signed  Vic- 
tor de  Mauleon,  in  which  the  writer  proclaimed  himself  to  be 
one  and  the  same  with  Pierre  Firmin,  and,  taking  a  yet  bolder 
tone  than  he  had  before  assumed,  dared  the  government  to  at- 
tempt legal  measures  against  him.  The  government  was  pru- 
dent enough  to  disregard  that  haughty  bravado,  but  Victor  de 
Mauleon  rose  at  once  into  political  importance.  He  had  already, 
in  his  real  name  and  his  quiet  way,  established  a  popular  and 
respectable  place  in  Parisian  society.  But  if  this  revelation 
created  him  enemies  whom  he  had  not  before  provoked,  he  was 
now  sufficiently  acquitted,  by  tacit  consent,  of  the  sins  formerly 
laid  to  his  charge,  to  disdain  the  assaults  of  petty  wrath.  His 
old  reputation  for  personal  courage  and  skill  in  sword  and  pis- 
tol sei-ved,  hideed,  to  protect  him  from  such  charges  as  a  Pari- 
sian journalist  does  not  reply  to  with  his  pen.  If  he  created 
some  enemies,  he  created  many  more  friends,  or,  at  least,  par- 
tisans and  admirers.  He  only  needed  fine  and  imprisonment 
to  become  a  popular  hero. 

A  few  days  after  he  had  thus  proclaimed  himself,  Victor  de 
Mauleon — who  had  before  kept  aloof  from  Rameau,  and  from 
salons  at  which  he  was  likely  to  meet  that  distinguished  minstrel 
— solicited  his  personal  acquaintance,  and  asked  him  to  break- 
fast. 

Rameau  joyfully  went.  He  had  a  very  natural  curiosity  to 
see  the  contributor  whose  articles  had  so  mainly  insured  the 
sale  of  the  "  Sens  CommunT 

In  the  dark-haired,  keen-eyed,  well-dressed,  middle-aged 
man,  with  commanding  port  and  courtly  address,  he  failed  to 
recognize  any  resemblance  to  the  flaxen-wigged,  long-coated, 
be-spectacled,  shambling  sexagenarian  whom  he  had  known  as 
Lebeau.  Only  now  and  then  a  tone  of  voice  struck  him  as  fa- 
miliar, but  he  could  not  recollect  where  he  had  heard  the  voice 
it  resembled.     The  thought  of  Lebeau  did  not  occur  to  him  ;   if 


3i6  THE  PARISIANS. 

it  "had  occurred  it  would  only  have  struck  him  as  a  chance  coin- 
cidence. Rameau,  like  most  egotists,  was  ratlier  a  dull  observer 
of  men.     His  genius  was  not  objective. 

*'  I  trust,  Monsieur  Rameau,"  said  the  Vicomte,  as  he  and 
his  guest  were  seated  at  the  breakfast-table,  "  that  you  are  not 
dissatisfied  with  the  remuneration  your  eminent  services  in  the 
journal  have  received  .-'  " 

"  The  proprietor,  whoever  he  be,  has  behaved  most  liber- 
allv,"  answered  Rameau. 

"  I  take  that  compliment  to  myself,  f/^^rr<7-^r^r<?/  for,  though 
the  expenses  of  starting  the  "  Sens  Commun,"  and  the  caution- 
money  lodged,  were  found  by  a  friend  of  mine,  that  was  as  a 
loan,  which  I  have  long  since  repaid,  and  the  property  in  the 
journal  is  now  exclusively  mine.  I  have  to  thank  you  not  only  for 
your  brilliant  contributions,  but  for  those  of  the  colleagues  you 
secured.  Monsieur  Savarin's  piquant  criticisms  were  most  val- 
uable to  us  at  starting.  I  regret  to  have  lost  his  aid.  But  as 
he  has  set  up  a  new  journal  of  his  own,  even  he  has  not  wit 
enough  to  spare  for  another.  Apropos  of  our  contributors,  I 
shall  ask  you  to  present  me  to  the  fair  author  of  'The  Artist's 
daughter.'  I  am  of  too  prosaic  a  nature  to  appreciate  justly  the 
merits  of  a  ronian ;  but  I  have  heard  warm  praise  of  this  stor)- 
from  the  young, — they  are  the  best  judges  of  that  kind  of  litera- 
ture ;  and  I  can  at  least  understand  the  worth  of  a  contributor 
who  trebled  the  sale  of  our  journal.  It  is  a  misfortune  to  us 
indeed,  that  her  work  is  completed  ;  but  I  trust  that  the  sum 
sent  to  her  through  our  publisher  suffices  to  tempt  her  to  favor 
us  with  another  rotnan  in  series." 

"  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,"  said  Rameau,  with  a  somewhat 
sharper  intonation  of  his  sharp  voice,  "  has  accepted  for  the  re- 
publication of  her  roman  in  a  separate  form  terms  whicJi  attest 
the  worth  of  her  genius,  and  has  had  offers  from  other  journals 
for  a  serial  tale  of  even  higher  amount  than  the  sum  so  gener- 
ously sent  to  her  through  your  publisher." 

"  Has  she  accepted  them.  Monsieur  Rameau  ?  If  so,  tani 
pis  pour  vous.  Pardon  me,  I  mean  that  your  salary  suffers  in 
proportion  as  the  *  Sens  Commun^  declines  in  sale." 

"  She  has  not  accepted  them.     I   advised  her  not  to  do  so 
until  she  could  compare  them  with  those  offered    bythe   pro 
prietor  of  the  '  Sens  Comniun.''  " 

"  And  your  advice  guides  her  ?  Ah  1  c/ier  confrere,  you  are 
a  happy  man — you  have  influence  over  this  young  aspirant  to 
the  fame  of  a  De  Stael  or  a  George  Sand." 

"  I  flatter  myself  that  I  have  some,"   answered  Rameau, 


THE  PARISIAN'S. 


317 


smiling  loftily  as  he  helped  himself  to   another  tumbler  of  Vol- 
ney  wine — excellent,  but  rather  heady. 

"  So  much  the  better.  I  leave  you  free  to  arrange  terms 
\\Ith  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  higher  than  she  can  obtain  else- 
where, and  kindly  contrive  my  own  personal  introduction  to  her 
— you  have  breakfasted  already  ? — permit  me  to  offer  you  a 
cigar — excuse  me  if  I  do  not  bear  you  company ;  I  seldom 
smoke — never  of  a  morning.  Now  to  business,  and  the  state 
of  France.  Take  that  easy-chair,  seat  yourself  comfortably. 
So  !  Listen  !  If  ever  Mephistopheles  revisit  the  earth,  how 
he  will  laugh  at  Universal  Suffrage  and  Vote  by  Ballot  in  an 
old  country  like  France,  as  things  to  be  admired  by  educated 
men  and  adopted  by  friends  of  genuine  freedom  !  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Rameau. 

"  In  this  respect,  at  least,  let  me  hope  I  can  furnish  you 
with  understanding. 

"  The  Emperor  has  resorted  to  a  plebiscite — viz.,  a  vote  by 
ballot  and  universal  suffrage  —as  to  certain  popular  changes 
which  circumstances  compel  'him  to  substitute  for  his  former 
personal  rule.  Is  there  a  single  intelligent  Liberal  who  is  not 
against  ihiit  plebiscite  ? — is  there  any  such  who  does  not  know 
that  the  appeal  of  the  Emperor  to  universal  suffrage  and  vote 
by  ballot  must  result  in  a  triumph  over  all  the  variations  of 
free  thought,  by  the  unity  which  belongs  to  Order,  represented 
throug'h  an  able  man  at  the  head  of  the  State .''  The  multitude 
never  comprehend  principles ;  principles  are  complex  ideas ; 
they  comprehend  a  simple  idea,  and  the  simplest  idea  is,  a 
Name  thai  rids  their  action  of  all  responsibility  of  thought. 

"  Well,  in  France  there  are  principles  superabundant  which 
you  can  pit  against  the  principle  of  Imperial  rule.  But  there 
is  not  one  name  you  ca\)  pit  against  Napoleon  the  Third  ;  there- 
fore I  steer  our  little  bark  in  the  teeth  of  the  popular  gale 
R'hen  I  denounce  the  plebiscite^  and  '  Le  Sens  Commun'  wil. 
necessarily  fall  m  .sale — it  is  beginning  to  fall  already.  We 
shall  have  the  educated  men  with  us,  the  rest  against.  In 
every  country — even  in  China,  where  all  are  highly  educated 
— a  few  must  be  yet  more  highly  educated  than  the  many. 
Monsieur  Ram,eaii,  I  desire  to  overthrow  the  Empire :  in  order 
to  do  that,  it  is  not  enough  to  have  on  my  side  the  educated 
men,  I  must  have  the  canaille — the  ca?iaille  of  Paris  and  of 
the  manufacturing  towns.  But  I  use  the  canaille  for  my  own  pur- 
pose— I  don't  mean  to  enthrone  it.  You  comprehend  i" — the 
canaille  quiescent  is  simply  mud  at  the  bottom  of  a  stream ; 
the  canaille  agicated  is  mud  at  the  surface.     But  no  man  ca- 


3i8 


THE  PARISIANS. 


pable  of  three  ideas  builds  the  palaces  and  senates  of  civilized 
society  out  of  mud  be  it  at  the  top  or  the  bottom  of  an  ocean. 
Can  either  you  or  I  desire  that  the  destinies  of  France  shall 
be  swayed  by  coxcombical  artisans  who  think  themselves  supe 
rior  to  every  man  who  writes  grammar,  and  whose  idea  of  a 
commonwealth  is  the  confiscation  of  private  propeity." 

Rameau,  thoroughly  puzzled  by  this  discciirso,  bowed  his 
head,  and  replied  whisperingly,  "  Proceed.  You  are  against 
the  Empire,  yet  against  the  populace  ! — What  are  you  for  ? 
not,  surely,  the  Legitimists  ? — are  you  Republican  }  Orleanist  ? 
or  what .'' " 

"Your  questions  are  very  pertinent,"  answered  the  Vicornte, 
courteously,  "  and  my  answer  shall  be  very  frank.  I  am  against 
absolute  rule,  whether  under  a  Bonaparte  or  a  Bourbon.  I 
am  for  a  free  State,  whether  under  a  coni'dtutional  hereditary 
sovereign  like  the  English  or  Belgian,  or  whether,  republican 
in  name,  it  be  less  democratic  than  constitutional  monirchy  in 
practice,  like  the  American.  But,  as  a  man  interested  in  the 
fate  of  '  Le  Sens  Com7nun\  I  hold  in  profound  di.sdiiin  all 
crochets  for  revolutionizing  the  elements  of  Humari  Nature 
Enough  of  this  abstract  talk.  To  the  point.  You  ■^^'n  of  course 
aware  of  the  violent  meetings  held  by  the  Socialists,  nominally 
against  tYvo.  plebiscite,  really  against  the  Emperor  h'jr,j*-'ll  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  at  least  that  the  working  clasi  ani  extremely 
discontented;  the  numerous  strikes  last  month  W'','i e  not  on  a 
mere  question  of  wages — they  were  against  the  existing  forms 
of  society.  And  the  Articles  by  Pierre  Firniin  diiiich  brought 
me  into  collision  with  the  government  seeme'/i  to  differ  from 
what  you  now  say.  They  approved  those  si  nkes ;  they  ap 
peared  to  sympathize  with  the  revolutionary  ri<';e tings  at  Bell 
ville  or  Montmartre." 

"  Of  course  !  We  use  coarse  tools  for  de-jr^-oying ;  we  cast 
them  aside  for  finer  ones  when  we  want  to  xv.construct. 

"  I  attended  one  of  those  meetings  last  ni/ht.  See,  I  have 
a  pass  for  all  such  assemblies,  signed  by  sorn.'  dolt  who  cannot 
ever,  spell  the  name  he  assumes — '  Pom  (U-  '.fairJ  A  commis- 
sary of  police  sat  yawning  at  the  end  ot  the  orchestra,  his 
secretary  by  his  side,  while  the  orators  stai/uner  out  fragments 
of  would-be  thunderbolts.  Commissary  of  police  yawns  more 
wearily  than  before,  secretary  disdains  to  uic  his  pen,  seizes  his 
penknife  and  pares  his  nails.  Up  rises  a  wild  haired,  weak- 
limbed  silhouette  of  a  man,  and,  affecting-  a  solemnity  of  mien 
which  might  have  become  the  virtuc^us  Guizot,  moves  this 
resolution — '  The  French  people  condeniu.s  Charles  Louis  Napa 


THE  PARISIANS. 


319 


leon  the  Third  to  the  penalty  of  perpetual  hard  labor.'  Ther 
up  rises  the  commissar}-  of  police  and  says  quietly,  '  I  declare 
this  meeting  at  an  end.' 

"  Sensation  among  the  audience — they  gesticulate — they 
screech — they  bellow — -the  commissary  puts  on  his  great-coat 
■ — the  secretary  gives  a  last  touch  to  his  nails  and  pockets  his 
penknife — the  audience  disperses — the  silhouette  of  a  mac 
effaces  itself — all  is  over," 

"  You  describe  the  scene  most  wittily,"  said  Rameau,  laugh- 
ing, but  the  laugh  was  constrained.  A  would-be  cynic  himself, 
there  was  a  something  grave  and  earnest  in  the  real  cynic  thai 
awed  him. 

"  What  conclusion  do  you  draw  from  such  a  scene,  cher 
pode  ?  "  asked  De  Mauleon,  fixing  his  keen  quiet  eyes  on 
Rameau. 

"  What  conclusion  ?     Well,  that — that " 

"  Yes,  continue.'" 

"  That  the  audience  were  sadly  degenerated  from  the  time 
when  Mirabeau  said  to  a  Master  of  the  Ceremonies,  '  We  are 
here  by  the  power  of  the  French  people,  and  nothing  but  the 
point  of  the  bayonet  shall  expel  us.' " 

"  Spoken  like  a  poet,  a  French  poet.  I  suppose  you  ad- 
mire M.  Victor  Hugo.  Conceding  that  he  would  have  em- 
ployed a  more  sounding  phraseology,  comprising  more  abso- 
lute ignorance  of  men,  times,  and  manners  in  unintelligible 
metaphor  and  melodramatic  braggadocio,  your  answer  might 
have  been  his  ;  but  pardon  me  if  1  add,  it  would  not  be  that  of 
Common  Sense.^' 

"  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  might  rebuke  me  more  politely," 
said  Rameau,  coloring  high. 

"  Accept  my  apologies  ;  I  did  not  mean  to  rebuke,  but  to 
instruct.  The  times  are  not  those  of  1789.  And  Nature,  ever 
repeating  herself  in  the  production  of  coxcombs  and  block- 
heads, never  repeats  herself  in  the  production  of  Mirabeaus. 
The  Empire  is  doomed — doomed,  because  it  is  hostile  to  the 
free  play  of  intellect.  Any  government  that  gives  absolute 
preponderance  to  the  many  is  hostile  to  intellect,  for  intellecl 
is  necessarily  confined  to  the  few, 

"  Intellect  is  the  most  revengeful  of  all  the  elements  of  so- 
ciety. It  cares  not  what  the  materials  through  which  it  insinu- 
ates or  forces  its  way  to  its  seat. 

"  I  accept  the  aid  of  Pom-de  Tair.  I  do  not  demean  my 
self  to  the  extent  of  writing  articles  that  may  favor  the  princi 


320  "^f^^  PARISIANS 

pies  of  Pom-de-Tair,  signed  in  the  name  of  Victor  de  MauMon 
or  of  Pierre  Firmin. 

"  I  will  beg  you,  my  dear  editor,  to  obtain  clever,  smart 
writers,  who  know  nothing  about  Socialists  and  International- 
ists, who  therefore  w'ill  not  commit  '  Le  Sens  Cotnmufi '  by  ad- 
vocating the  doctrines  of  those  idiots,  but  who  will  flatter  the 
vanity  of  the  canaille — vaguely  ;  write  any  stuff  they  please 
about  the  renown  of  Paris,  '  the  eye  of  the  world,'  '  the  sun  of 
the  Eurojoean  system,'  etc.,  of  the  artists  of  Paris  as  supplying 
soul  to  that  eye  and  fuel  to  that  sun — any  blague  of  that  sort — ■ 
genre  Victor  Hugo ;  but  nothing  definite  against  life  and  prop- 
erty, nothing  that  may  not  be  considered  hereafter  as  the  harm- 
less extravagance  of  a  poetic  enthusiasm.  You  might  write 
such  articles  yourself.  In  fine,  I  want  to  excite  the  multitude, 
and  yet  not  to  commit  our  journal  to  the  contempt  of  the  few. 

"  Nothing  is  to  be  admitted  that  may  bring  the  law  upon  us 
except  it  be  signed  by  my  name.  There  may  be  a  moment  in 
which  it  would  be  desirable  for  somebody  to  be  sent  to  prison  ; 
'.n  that  case  I  allow  no  substitutes — I  go  myself. 

"  Now  you  have  my  most  secret  thoughts.  I  intrust  them 
to  your  judgment  wi*^h  entire  confidence.  Monsieur  Lebeau 
gave  you  a  high  character,  which  you  have  hitherto  deserved. 
By  the  way,  have  you  seen  anything  lately  of  that  bourgeois 
conspirator  .-'  " 

"No:  his  professed  business  of  letter-writer  or  agent  is 
transferred  to  a  clerk,  who  says  M.  Lebeau  is  abroad." 

"  Ah  !  I  don't  think  that  is  true.  I  fancy  I  saw  him  the 
other  evening  gliding  along  the  lanes  of  Belleville.  He  is  too 
confirmed  a  conspirator  to  be  long  out  of  Paris ;  no  place  like 
Paris  for  seething  brains." 

"  Have  you  known  M.  Lebeau  long  ? "  asked  Rameau. 

"  Ay,  many  years.  We  are  both  Norman  by  birth,  as  you 
may  perceive  by  something  broad  in  our  accent." 

"  Ha  !  I  knew  your  voice  was  familiar  to  me  ;  certainly  it 
does  remind  me  of  Lebeau's." 

"  Normans  are  like  each  other  in  many  things  beside  voice 
and  accent — obstinacy,  for  instance,  in  clinging  to  ideas  once 
formed  ;  this  makes  them  good  friends  and  steadfast  enemies. 
I  would  advise  no  man  to  make  an  enemy  of  Lebeau. 

"  Au  revoir,  cher  confrere.  Do  not  forget  to  present  me  to 
Mademoiselle  Cicogna." 


THE  PARISIANS, 


321 


CHAPTER  II. 

On  leaving  De  MauMon  and  regaining  his  coupe^  Rameau 
felt  at  once  bewildered  and  humbled,  for  he  was  not  prepared 
for  the  tone  of  careless  superiority  which  the  Vicomte  assumed 
over  him.  He  had  expected  to  be  much  compUmented,  and 
he  comprehended  vaguely  that  he  had  been  somewhat  snubbed. 
He  was  not  only  irritated — he  was  bewildered  :  for  De  Mau- 
Icon's  political  disquisitions  did  not  leave  any  clear  or  definitf^ 
idea  on  his  mind  as  to  the  principles  which  as  editor  of  the 
*  Sens  Commuri'  he  was  to  see  adequately  represented  and 
carried  out.  In  truth,  Rameau  was  one  of  those  numerourt 
Parisian  politicians  who  have  read  little  and  reflected  less  on 
the  government  of  men  and  States.  Envy  is  said  by  a  great 
French  writer  to  be  the  vice  of  Democracies.  Envy  certainly 
had  made  Rameau  a  democrat.  He  could  talk  and  write  glibly 
enough  upon  the  themes  of  equality  and  fraternity,  and  was  so 
far  an  ultra-democrat  that  he  thought  moderation  the  sign  of  a 
mediocre  understanding. 

De  Mauleon's  talk,  therefore,  terribly  perplexed  him.  It 
was  unlike  anything  he  had  heard  before.  Its  revolutionary 
professions,  accompanied  with  so  much  scorn  for  the  multi- 
tude, and  the  things  the  multitude  desired,  were  Greek  to  him. 
He  was  not  shocked  by  the  cynicism  which  placed  wisdom  in 
using  the  passions  of  mankind  as  tools  for  the  interests  of  an 
individual ;  but  he  did  not  understand  the  frankness  of  its 
avowal. 

Nevertheless  the  man  had  dominated  over  and  subdued 
him.  He  recognized  the  power  of  his  contributor  without 
clearly  analyzing  its  nature — a  power  made  up  of  large  expe- 
rience of  life,  of  cold  examination  of  doctrines  that  heated 
others — of  patrician  calm — of  intellectual  sneer — of  collected 
confidence  in  self. 

Besides,  Rameau  felt,  with  a  nervous  misgiving,  that  in  this 
man,  who  so  boldly  proclaimed  his  contempt  for  the  instru- 
ments he  used,  he  had  found  a  master.  De  MauMon,  then, 
was  sole  proprietor  of  the  journal  from  which  Rameau  drew 
his  resources ;  might  at  any  time  dismiss  him  ;  might  at  any 
time  involve  the  journal  in  penalties  which,  even  if  Rameau 
could  escape   in  his  official  capacity  as  editor,  still  might  stop 


322  THE  PARISIAyS. 

the  '  Sens  Commtin,^  and  with  it  Rameau's  luxurious  subsist- 
ence. 

'  Altogether  the  visit  to  Dc  Mauleon  had  been  anything  but 
a  pleasant  one.  He  sought,  as  the  carriage  rolled  on,  to  turn 
his  thoughts  to  more  agreeable  subjects,  and  the  image  of 
Isaura  rose  before  him.  To  do  him  justice,  he  had  learned  to 
love  this  girl  as  well  as  his  nature  would  permit :  he  loved  her 
with  the  whole  strength  of  his  imagination,  and,  though  his 
heart  was  somewhat  cold,  his  imagination  was  very  ardent. 
He  loved  her  also  with  the  whole  strength  of  his  vanity,  and 
vanity  was  even  a  more  preponderant  organ  of  his  system  than 
imagination.  To  carry  off  as  his  prize  one  who  had  already 
achieved  celebrity,  whose  beauty  and  fascination  of  manner  were 
yet  more  acknowledged  than  her  genius,  would  certainly  be  a 
glorious  triumph. 

Every  Parisian  of  Rameau's  stamp  looks  forward  in  mar- 
riage to  a  brilliant  salon.  What  salon  more  brilliant  than  that 
which  he  and  Isaura  united  could  command  .-'  He  had  long  con- 
quered his  early  impulse  of  envy  at  Isaura's  success, — in  fact, 
that  success  had  become  associated  with  his  own  and  had 
contributed  greatly  to  his  enrichment.  So  that  to  other  mo- 
tives of  love  he  might  add  the  prudential  one  of  interest. 
Rameau  well  knew  that  his  own  vein  of  composition,  however 
lauded  by  the  cliques,  and  however  unrivalled  in  his  own  eyes, 
was  not  one  that  brings  much  profit  in  the  market.  He  com- 
pared himself  to  those  poets  who  are  too  far  in  advance  of 
their  time  to  be  quite  as  sure  of  bread  and  cheese  as  they  are 
of  immortal  fame. 

But  he  regarded  Isaura's  genius  as  of  a  lower  order,  and  a 
thing  in  itself  very  marketable.  Marry  her,  and  the  bread 
and  cheese  were  so  certain  that  he  might  elaborate  as  slowly 
as  he  pleased  the  verses  destined  to  immortal  fame.  Then  he 
should  be  independent  of  inferior  creatures  like  Victor  de 
Mauleon.  But  while  Rameau  convinced  himself  that  he  was 
passionately  in  love  with  Isaura,  he  could  not  satisfy  himself 
that  she  was  in  love  with  him. 

Though  during  the  past  year  they  had  seen  each  other  «on- 
stantly,  and  their  literary  occupations  had  produced  many 
sympathies  between  them — though  he  had  intimated  that  many 
of  his  most  eloquent  love-poems  were  inspired  by  her — though 
he  had  asserted  in  prose,  very  pretty  prose  too,  that  she  was  all 
that  youthful  poets  dream  of, — yet  she  had  hitherto  treated 
such  declarations  with  a  playful  laugh,  accepting  them  as 
elegant  compliments  inspired  by  Parisian  gallantry ;    and   he 


THE  PARISIANS.  t^21 

felt  ar  vnp-v  and  sore  foreboding  that  if  he  were  to  insist  too 
seri'-m?ly  on  the  earnestness  of  their  import  and  ask  her  phiin- 
ly  to  be  his  wife,  her  refusal  would  be  certain,  and  his  visits 
to  her  house  might  be  interdicted. 

Stiii  Isaura  was  unmarried,  still  she  had  refused  offers  of 
marriage  from  men  higher  placed  than  himself, — still  he  di- 
vined no  one  whom  she  could  prefer.  And  as  he  now  leaned 
back  in  his  coupe  he  muttered  to  himself,  "  Oh,  if  I  could  but 
get  rid  of  that  little  demon  Julia,  I  would  devote  myself  so 
completely  to  winning  Isaura's  heart  that  I  must  succeed  ! — 
but  how  to  get  rid  of  Julia  ?  She  so  adores  me,  and  is  so  head- 
strong !  She  is  capable  of  going  to  Isaura — showing  my  letters 
■ — making  such  a  scene  !" 

Here  he  checked  the  carriage  at  a  cafe  on  the  Boulevard, 
descended,  imbibed  two  glasses  of  absinthe,  and  then,  feeling 
much  emboldened,  remounted  his  coupe  and  directed  the  driver 
to  Isaura's  apartment. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

Yes,  celebrities  are  of  rapid  growth  in  the  salo7is  of  Paris. 
Far  more  solid  than  that  of  Rameau,  far  more  brilliant  than 
that  of  de  Maule'on,  was  the  celebrity  which  Isaura  had  now 
acquired.     She  had  been  unable  to  retain  the  pretty  suburban 

villa  at  A .       The   owner  wanted  to  alter    and  enlarge  it 

for  his  residence,  and  she  had  been  persuaded  by  Signora 
Venosta,  who  was  always  sighing  for  fresh  salons  to  conquer, 
to  remove  (towards  the  close  of  the  previous  year)  to  apart- 
ments in  the  centre  of  the  Parisian  beau  monde.  Without 
formally  professing  to  receive,  on  one  evening  in  the  week  her 
salon  was  open  to  those  who  had  eagerly  sought  her  acquaint- 
ance— comprising  many  stars  in  the  world  of  fashion,  as  well 
as  those  in  the  world  of  art  and  letters.  And,  as  she  had  now 
wholly  abandoned  the  idea  of  the  profession  for  which  her 
voice  had  been  cultivated,  she  no  longer  shrank  from  the  exer- 
cise of  her  surpassing  gift  of  song  for  the  delight  of  private 
friends.  Her  physician  had  withdrawn  the  interdict  on  such 
exercise.  His  skill,  aided  by  the  rich  vitality  of  her  constitu- 
tion, had  triumphed  over  all  tendencies  to  the  malady  for 
which  he  had  been  consulted. 


^2  4  77/^  PARISIANS. 

To  hear  Isaura  Cicogna  sing  in  her  own  house  was  a  privi' 
lege  sought  and  prized  by  many  who  never  read  a  word  of  her 
literary  compositions.  A  good  critic  of  a  book  is  rare  ;  but 
good  judges  of  a  voice  are  numberless.  Adding  this  attrac- 
tion of  song  to  her  youth,  her  beauty,  her  frank  powers  cf  con- 
verse— an  innocent  sweetness  of  manner  free  from  all  conven- 
tional affectation — and  to  the  fresh  novelty  of  a  genius  which 
inspired  the  young  with  enthusiasm  and  beguiled  the  old  to  in 
dulcence,  it  was  no  wonder  that  Isaura  became  a  celebrity  ai 
Paris. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  wonder  that  her  head  was  not  turned  by 
the  adulation  that  surrounded  her.  But  I  believe,  be  it  said 
with  diffidence,  that  a  woman  of  mind  so  superior  that  the 
mind  never  pretends  to  efface  the  heart,  is  less  intoxicated 
with  flattery  than  a  man  equally  exposed  to  it.  It  is  the 
strength  of  her  heart  that  keeps  her  head  sober. 

Isaura  had  never  yet  overcome  her  first  romance  of  love  ;  as 
yet,  amid  all  her  triumphs,  there  was  not  a  day  in  which  her 
thoughts  did  not  wistfully,  mournfully,  fly  back  to  those  blessed 
moments  in  which  she  felt  her  cheek  color  before  a  look,  hei 
heart  beat  at  the  sound  of  a  footfall.  Perhaps  if  there  had 
been  the  customary  finish  to  this  young  romance — the  lover's 
deliberate  renunciation,  his  formal  farewell — the  girl's  pride 
would,  ere  this,  have  conquered  her  affection — possibly — who 
knows  ? — replaced  it. 

But,  reader,  be  you  male  or  female,  have  you  ever  known 
this  sore  trial  of  affection  and  pride,  that  from  some  cause  or 
other,  to  you  mysterious,  the  dear  intercourse  to  which  you 
had  accustomed'  the  secret  life  of  your  life  abruptly  ceases, 
you  know  that  a  something  has  come  between  you  and  th(i 
beloved  which  you  cannot  distinguish,  cannot  measure,  cannot 
guess,  and  therefore  cannot  surmount ;  and  you  say  to  your- 
self at  the  dead  of  solitarj'  night,  "  Oh  for  an  explanation  ! 
Oh  for  one  meeting  more  !  All  might  be  so  easily  set  rigl.t ; 
or,  if  not,  I  should  know  the  worst,  and,  knowing  it,  could  con- 
quer !  " 

This  trial  was  Isaura's.  There  had  been  no  explanation,  no 
last  farewell,  between  her  and  Graham.  She  divined — no  woman 
lightly  makes  a  mistake  there — that  he  loved  her.  She  knew 
that  this  dread  something  had  intervened  between  her  and  him 
when  he  took  leave  of  her  before  others  so  many  months  ago , 
^hat  this  dread  something  still  continued — what  was  it  ?  She 
•was  certain  that  it  would  vanish,  could  they  but  meet  once 
again,  and  not  before  others.     Oh  for  such  a  meeting  ! 


THE  PARISIANS. 


325 


She  could  not  herself  destroy  hope.  She  could  not  marry 
another,  She  would  have  no  heart  to  give  to  another  while  he 
was  free,  while  in  doubt  if  his  heart  was  still  her  own.  And 
thus  her  pride  did  not  help  to  conquer  her  affection. 

Of  Graham  Vane  she  heard  occasionally.  He  had  ceased 
to  correspond  with  Savarin ;  but  among  those  who  most  fre- 
quented her  salon  were  the  Morleys.  Americans  so  well  edu- 
cated and  so  well  placed  as  the  Morleys  knew  something  about 
every  Englishman  of  the  social  station  of  Graham  Vane.  Isaura 
learned  from  them  that  Graham,  after  a  tour  on  the  Continent, 
had  returned  to  England  at  the  commencement  of  the  year,  had 
been  invited  to  stand  for  Parliament,  had  refused,  that  his  name 
was  in  the  list  published  by  the  "  Morning  Post "  of  the  elite 
whose  arrival  in  London,  or  whose  presence  at  dinner-tables,  is 
recorded  as  an  event,  that  the  "  Athenaeum  "  had  mentioned  a 
rumor  that  Graham  Vane  was  the  author  of  a  political  pamphlet 
which,  published  anonymously,  had  made  no  inconsiderable 
sensation.  Isaura  sent  to  England  for  that  pamphlet :  the  sub- 
ject was  somewhat  dry,  and  the  style,  though  clear  and  vigorous, 
was  scarcely  of  the  eloquence  which  wins  the  admiration  of 
women  ;  and  yet  she  learned  every  word  of  it  by  heart. 

We  know  how  little  she  dreamed  that  the  celebrity  which 
she  hailed  as  an  approach  to  him  was  daily  making  her  more 
remote.  The  sweet  labors  she  undertook  for  that  celebrity  con- 
tinued to  be  sweetened  yet  more  by  secret  association  with  the 
absent  one.  How  many  of  the  passages  most  admired  could 
never  have  been  written  had  he  been  never  known  ! 

And  she  blessed  those  labors  the  more  that  they  upheld  her 
from  the  absolute  feebleness  of  sickened  reverie,  beguiled  her 
from  the  gnawing  torture  of  unsatisfied  conjecture.  She  did 
comply  with  Madame  de  Grantmesnil's  command — did  pass 
from  the  dusty  beatm.  road  of  life  into  green  fields  and  along 
flowery  river-banks,  and  did  enjoy  that  ideal  by-world. 

But  still  the  one  image  which  reigned  over  her  human  heart 
n*  /ed  beside  her  in  the  gardens  of  fairyland. 


326  THE  PARISIANS, 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IsAURA  was  seated  in  her  pretty  salon,  with  the  Venosra,  M, 
Savarin,  the  Morleys,  and  the  financier  Louvier,  when  Rameau 
was  announced. 

"  Ha !  "  cried  Savarin,  "  we  were  just  discussing  a  mattei 
which  nearly  concerns  you,  cherpoete.  I  have  not  seen  you  since 
the  announcement  that  Pierre  Firmin  is  no  other  than  Victor  de 
Maule'on.  Mafoi,  that  worthy  seems  likely  to  be  as  dangerous 
with  his  pen  as  he  was  once  with  his  sword.  The  article  in 
which  he  revealed  himself  makes  a  sharp  lunge  on  the  govern- 
ment. Take  care  of  yourself.  When  hawks  and  nightingales 
fly  together  the  hawk  may  escape,  and  the  nightingale  complain 
of  the  barbarity  of  kings,  in  a  cage  :  '  flebiliter  gemens  infelix 
avis.'  " 

"  He  is  not  fit  to  conduct  a  journal,"  replied  Rameau,  mag- 
niloquently,  "who  will  not  brave  a  danger  for  his  body  in  de- 
fense of  the  right  to  infinity  for  his  thought." 

"  Bravo  !  "  said  Mrs.  Morley,  clapping  her  pretty  hands. 
*'  That  speech  reminds  me  of  home.  The  French  are  very  much 
like  the  Americans  in  their  style  of  oratoiy." 

"  So,"  said  Louvier,  "my  old  friend  the  Vicomte  has  come 
out  as  a  writer,  a  politician,  a  philosopher ;  I  feel  hurt  that  he 
kept  this  secret  from  me  despite  our  intimacy.  I  suppose  you 
knew  it  from  the  first,  M.  Rameau  ? " 

"  No,  I  was  as  much  taken  by  surprise  as  the  rest  of  the 
world.     You  have  long  known  M.  de  Mauleon  "i  " 

"  Yes,  I  may  say  we  began  life  together — that  is,  much  at 
the  same  time." 

"  What  is  he  like  in  appearance  }  "  asked  Mrs.  Morley. 

"  The  ladies  thought  him  very  handsome  when  he  was 
young,"  replied  Louvier.  "  He  is  still  a  fine-looking  man,  about 
my  height." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  him,"  cried  Mrs.  Morley,  "  if  only 
to  tease  that  husband  of  mine  !  He  refuses  me  the  dearest  of 
woman's  rights  :  I  can't  make  him  jealous." 

"  You  may  have  the  opportunity  of  knowing  this  ci-devant 
Lovelace  very  soon,"  said  Rameau,  "  for  he  has  begged  me  to 
present  him  to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  and  I  will  ask  her  per- 
mission to  do  so  on  Thursday  evening  when  she  receives." 

Isaura,  who  had  hitherto  attended  very  listlessly  to  the  con- 


THE  PARISIANS. 


327 


versation,  bowed  assent.  "  Any  friend  of  yours  will  be  welcome. 
But  I  ovtn  the  articles  signed  in  the  narue  of  Pierre  Firmin  do 
not  prepossess  me  in  favor  of  their  author." 

"  Why  so  ?  "  asked  Louvier ;  "  surely  you  are  not  an  Impe- 
ialist .?  " 

"  Nay  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  a  politician  at  all>  but  there  is 
something  in  the  writing  of  Pierre  Firmin  that  pains  and  chills 
me." 

"  Yet  the  secret  of  its  popularity,"  said  Savarin,  "  is  that  it 
says  what  every  one  says — only  better.,' 

"  I  see  now  that  it  is  exactly  that  which  displeases  me  ;  it 
is  the  Paris  talk  condensed  into  epigram  :  the  graver  it  is,  the 
less  it  elevates — the  lighter  it  is,  the  more  it  saddens." 

"  That  is  meant  to  hit  me,"  said  Savarin,  with  his  sunny 
laugh — "  me  whom  you  call  cynical." 

"  No,  dear  M.  Savarin  ;  for  above  all  your  cynicism  is  gen- 
uine gayety,  and  below^  it  solid  kindness.     You  have  that  which 
I  do  not  find  in  M.  de  Mauleon's  writings,  nor  often  in  the  talk 
of  the  salons — you  have  youthfulness." 
"  Youthfulness  at  sixty — flatterer  !  " 

"  Genius  does  not  count  its  years  by  the  almanac,"  said 
Mrs,  Morley.  "  I  know  what  Isaura  means — she  is  quite  right ; 
there  is  a  breath  of  winter  in  M.  de  Mauleon's  style,  and  an 
odor  of  fallen  leaves.  Not  that  his  diction  wants  vigor  :  on  the 
contrary,  it  is  crisp  with  hoar-frost.  But  the  sentiments  con- 
veyed by  the  diction  are  those  of  a  nature  sear  and  withered. 
And  it  is  in  this  combination  of  brisk  words  and  decayed  feel- 
ings that  his  writing  represents  the  talk  and  mind  of  Paris.  He 
and  Paris  are  always  fault-finding  :  fault-finding  is  the  attribute 
of  old  age." 

Colonel  Morley  looked  round  with  pride,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  Clever  talker,  my  wife." 

Savarin  understood  that  look,  and  replied  to  it  courteously. 
"  Madame  has  a  gift  of  expression  which  Emile  de  Girardin 
can  scarcely  surpass.  But  when  she  blames  us  for  fault-finding, 
can  she  expect  the  friend«  of  liberty  to  praise  the  present  style 
of  things  .'' ' 

"  I  should  be  obliged  to  the  friends  of  liberty,"  said  the 
Colonel,  dryly,  "  to  tell  me  how  that  state  of  things  is  to  be 
mended.  I  find  no  enthusiasm  for  the  Orleanists,  none  for  a 
Republic  ;  people  sneer  at  religion ;  no  belief  in  a  cause,  no 
adherence  to  an  opinion.  But  the  worst  of  it  is  that,  like  all 
people  who  are  biases,  the  Parisians  are  eager  for  strange  ex- 
citement, and  ready  to  listen  to  any  oracle  who  promises  a  re- 


328  ^  THE  PARISIANS. 

lief  from  indifferentism.  This  it  is  which  makes  the  Press 
more  danj^erous  in  France  than  it  is  in  any  other  country. 
Elsevvhtj-o  the  press  sometimes  leads  sometimes  follows,  public 
opinion.  Here  there  is  no  public  opinion  to  consult,  and  in- 
stead of  (^pinion  the  Press  represents  passion." 

"  My  dear  Colonel  Morley,"  said  Savarin,  "  I  hear  yovi  very 
oft«n  say  that  a  Frenchman  cannot  understand  America.     Per- 
mit n\e  to  observe  that  an  American  cannot  understand  France 
—01  at  least  Paris.     Apropos  of  Paris — that  is  a  large  specula 
tion  (.'t  yours,  Louvier,  in  the  new  suburb." 

"  And  a  very  sound  one  ;  I  advise  you  to  invest  in  it.  I  can 
secure  you  at  present  five  per  cent,  on  the.  rental ;  that  is 
nothing — the  houses  will  be  worth  double  when  the  Rue  de 
Louvier  is  completed." 

"  Alas  !  I  have  no  money ;  my  new  journal  absorbs  all  my 
capital." 

"  Shall  I  transfer  the  moneys  I  hold  for  you,  Signorina, 
and  add  to  them  whatever  you  may  have  made  by  your  delight- 
ful ronian,  as  yet  lying  idle,  to  this  investment.?  I  cannot  say 
more  in  its  favor  than  this — I  embarked  a  very  large  portion  of 
my  capital  in  the  Rue  de  Louvier,  and  I  flatter  myself  that  I 
am  not  one  of  those  men  who  persuade  their  friends  to  do  a 
foolish  thing  by  setting  them  the  example." 

"  Whatever  j'ou  advise  on  such  a  subject,"  said  Isaura,  gra- 
ciously, "  is  sure  to  be  as  wise  as  it  is  kind." 
"  You  consent,  then  1  " 
"  Certainly." 

Here  the  Venosta,  who  had  been  listening  with  great  atten- 
tion to  Louvier's  commendation  of  this  investment,  drew  him 
aside,  and  whispered  in  his  ear — "  I  suppose,  M.  Louvier,  that 
one  can't  put  a  little  money — a  very  little  money— poco-poco- 
poco/mo,  into  your  street." 

"  Into  my  street !  Ah,  I  understand— into  the  speculation 
of  the  Rue  de  Louvier  !  certainly  you  can.  Arrangements  are' 
made  on  purpose  to  suit  the  convenience  of  the  smallest  capita- 
lists— from  five  hundred  francs  upwards." 

"  And  you  feel  quite  sure  that  we  shall  double  our  money 
when  the  street  is  completed  .?  I  should  not  like  to  have  my 
brains  in  my  heels."* 

"  More  than  double  it,  I  hope,  long  before  the  street  is  com- 
pleted." 

"  I  have  saved  a  little   money — very  little.     I  have  no  rela- 
"  *  Avere  il  cervello  nella  calcag}m,''—\iz.,  to  act  without  prudent  reflection 


THE  PARISIANS. 


329 


tions,  and  I  mean  to  leave  it  all  to  the  Signorina  ;  and  if  it 
could  be  doubled,  why,  there  would  be  twice  as  much  to  leave 
her." 

"  So  there  would,"  said  Louvier.  "You  can't  do  better  than 
put  it  all  into  the  Rue  de  Louvier.  I  will  send  you  the  neces- 
sary papers  to-morrow,  when  I  send  hers  to  the  Signorina." 

Louvier  here  turned  to  address  himself  to  Colonel  Morley, 
but,  finding  that  degenerate  son  of  America  indisposed  to  get 
cent,  per  cent,  for  his  money  when  offered  by  a  Parisian,  he 
very  soon  took  his  leave.  The  other  visitors  followed  his  ex- 
ample, except  Rameau,  who  was  alone  with  the  Venosta  and 
Isaura.  The  former  had  no  liking  for  Rameau,  who  showed 
her  none  of  the  attentions  her  innocent  vanity  demanded,  and 
she  soon  took  herself  off  to  her  own  room,  to  calculate  the 
amount  of  her  savings  and  dream  of  the  Rue  de  Louvier  and 
"golden  joys." 

Rameau,  approaching  his  chair  to  Isaura's,  then  commenced 
conversation,  dryly  enough,  upon  pecuniary  matters  ;  acquit- 
ting himself  of  the  mission  with  which  De  Mauldon  had  charg- 
ed him,  the  request  for  a  new  work  from  her  pen  for  the  "  Sens 
Commtin"  and  the  terms  that  ought  to  be  asked  for  compliance. 
The  young  lady-author  shrank  from  this  talk.  Her  private  in- 
come, though  modest,  sufficed  for  her  wants,  and  she  felt  a  sen- 
sitive shame  in  the  sale  of  her  thoughts  and  fancies. 

Putting  hurriedly  aside  the  mercantile  aspect  of  the  ques- 
tion, she  said  that  she  had  no  other  work  in  her  mind  at  present 
— 'that,  whatever  her  vein  of  invention  might  be,  it  flowed  at  its 
own  will  and  could  not  be  commanded. 

"  Nay,"  said  Rameau,  "this  is  not  true.  We  fancy,  in  our 
hours  of  indulgence,  that  we  must  wait  for  inspiration  ;  but  once 
force  ourselves  to  work,  and  ideas  spring  forth  at  the  wave  of 
tlie  pen.  You  my  believe  me  here — I  speak  from  experience  : 
I,  compelled  to  work,  and  in  modes  not  to  my  taste — I  do  my 
task  I  know  not  how.     I  rub  the  lamp,  '  the  genius  comes.'  " 

"  I  have  read  in  some  English  author  that  motive  power,  is 
necessary  to  continued  labor  :  you  have  motive  power,  I  have 


none." 


"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you." 

"  I  mean  that  a  strong  ruling  motive  is  required  to  persist 
in  any  regular  course  of  action  that  needs  effort :  the  motive 
with  the  majority  of  men  is  the  need  of  subsistence ;  with  a 
large  number  (as  in  trades  or  professions),  not  actually  want, 
but  a  desire  of  gain,  and  perhaps  of  distinction,  in  their  calling  ; 
the  desire  of  professional  distinction  expands   into  the  longings 


32° 


THE  PARISIANS. 


for  more  comprehensive  fame,  more  exalted  honors,  with  the 
few  who  become  great  writers,  soldiers,  statesmen,  orators." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  no  such  motive  ?  " 

"  None  in  the  sting  of  want,  none  in  the  desire  of  gain." 

"  But  fame  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  I  thought  so  once.  I  know  not  now — I  begin  to 
doubt  if  fame  should  be  sought  by  woman."  This  was  said 
very  dejectedly. 

"  Tut,  dearest  Signorina  !  what  gadfly  has  stung  you  ?  Your 
doubt  is  a  weakness  unworthy  of  your  intellect ;  and  even  were 
it  not,  genius  is  destiny  and  will  be  obeyed  :  vou  must  write, 
despite  yourself — and  your  writing  must  bring  fame,  whether 
you  wish  it  or  not." 

Isaura  was  silent,  her  head  drooped  on  her  breast — there 
were  tears  in  her  downcast  eyes. 

Rameau  took  her  hand,  which  she  yielded  to  him  passively, 
and,  clasping  it  in  both  his  own,  he  rushed  on  impulsively  :— 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  these  misgivings  are  when  we  feel  our- 
selves solitary,  unloved :  how  often  have  they  been  mine  ! 
But  how  different  would  labor  be  if  shared  and  sympathized 
with  by  a  congenial  mind,  by  a  heart  that  beats  in  unison  with 
one's  own  !  " 

Isaura's  breast  heaved  beneath  her  robe,  she  sighed  softly. 

"  And  then  how  sweet  the  fame  of  which  the  one  we  love 
is  proud  !  how  trifling  becomes  the  pang  of  some  malignant 
depreciation,  which  a  word  from  the  beloved  one  can  soothe  ! 
Oh,  Signorina  !  oh,  Isaura  !  are  we  not  made  for  each  other  ? 
Kindred  pursuits,  hopes  and  fears  in  comNion,  the  same  race 
to  run,  the  same  goal  to  win  !  I  need  a  niotive  stronger  than 
I  have  yet  known  for  the  persevering  energy  that  insures  suc- 
cess :  supply  to  me  that  motive.  Let  me  think  that  whatever 
I  win  in  the  strife  of  the  world  is  a  tribute  to  Isaura.  No, 
do  not  seek  to  withdraw  this  hand,  let  me  claim  it  as  mine 
for  life.  I  love  you  as  man  never  loved  before — do  not  reject 
my  love." 

They  say  the  woman  who  hesitates  is  lost.  Isaura  hesitated, , 
but  was  not  yet  lost.  The  words  she  listened  to  moved  her 
deeply.  Offers  of  marriage  she  had  already  received  :  one 
from  a  rich  middle-aged  noble,  a  devoted  musical  virtuoso ; 
one  from  a  young  avocat  fresh  from  the  provinces  and  some- 
what calculating  on  her  dot ;  one  from  a  timid  but  enthusi- 
astic admirer  of  her  genius  and  her  beauty,  himself  rich, 
handsome,  of  good  birth,  but  with  shy  manners   and  faltering 


tongue. 


THE  PARISIANS. 


ZZ^i- 


But  these  had  made  their  proposals  with  the  formal  respect 
habitual  to  French  decorum  in  matrimonial  proposals.  Words 
so  eloquently  impassioned  as  Gustave  Rameau's  had  nevei 
before  thrilled  her  ears.  Yes,  she  was  deeply  moved ;  and 
yet  by  that  very  emotion  she  knew  that  it  was  not  to  the  love 
of  this  wooer  that  her  heart  responded. 

There  is  a  circumstance  in  the  history  of  courtship  familiar 
to  the  experience  of  many  women,  that  while  the  suitor  .s 
pleading  his  cause  his  language  may  touch  every  fibre  in  the 
heart  of  his  listener,  yet  substitute,  as  it  were,  another  presence 
for  his  own.  She  may  be  saying  to  herself,  "  Oh  that  another 
had  said  those  words  !  "  and  be  dreaming  of  the  other,  while 
she  hears  the  one. 

Thus  it  was  now  with  Isaura  ;  aii^l  not  till  Rameau's  voice 
had  ceased  did  that  dream  pass  away,  and  with  a  slight  shiver 
she  turned  her  face  towards  the  wooer,  sadly  and  pityingly. 

"It  cannot  be,"  she  said  in  a  low  whisper;  "I  were  not 
worthy  of  your  love  could  I  accept  it.  Forget  that  you  have 
so  spoken  ;  let  me  still  be  a  friend  admiring  your  genius,  in- 
terested in  your  career.  I  cannot  be  more.  Forgive  me  if  I 
unconsciously  led  you  to  think  I  could,  I  am  so  grieved  to  pain 
you." 

"  Am  I  to  understand,"  said  Rameau,  coldly,  for  his  amour- 
propre  was  resentful,  "  that  the  proposals  of  another  have  been 
more  fortunate  than  mine  ?  "  And  he  named  the  youngest  and 
comeliest  of  those  whom  she  had  rejected. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Isaura. 

Rameau  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  turning  his  face 
from  her.  In  reality  he  was  striving  to  collect  his  thoughts 
and  decide  on  the  course  it  were  most  prudent  for  him  now 
to  pursue.  The  fumes  of  the  absinthe  which  had,  despite 
his  previous  forebodings,  emboldened  him  to  hazard  his 
avowal,  had  now  subsided  into  the  languid  reaction  which  is 
generally  consequent  on  that  treacherous  stimulus,  a  reaction 
not  unfavorable  to  passionless  reflection.  He  knew  that  if  he 
said  he  could  not  conquer  his  love,  he  would  still  cling  to 
hope,  and  trust  to  perseverance  and  time,  he  should  compel 
Isaura  to  forbid  his  visits  and  break  off  their  familiar  inter- 
course. This  would  be  fatal  to  the  chance  of  yet  winning 
her,  and  would  also  be  of  serious  disadvantage  to  his  more 
worldly  interests.  Her  literary  aid  might  become  essential  to 
the  journal  on  which  his  fortunes  depended ;  and  at  all  events, 
in  her  conversation,  in  her  encouragement,  in  her  sympathy 
with   the  pains  and  joys   of  his   career,  he   felt  a  support,  a 


,-2  THE  PARISIANS. 

comfort,  nay,  an  inspiration.  For  the  spontaneous  gush  of 
her  fresh  thoughts  and  fancies  served  to  recruit  his  o\v*  jaded 
ideas  and  enlarge  his  own  stinted  range  of  invention.  No  ; 
he  could  not  commit  himself  to  the  risk  of  banishment  from 
Isaura. 

And  mingled  with  meaner  motives  for  discretion,  there  was 
one  of  which  he  was  but  vaguely  conscious,  purer  and  nobler. 
In  the  society  of  this  girl,  in  whom  whatever  was  strong  and 
high  in  mental  organization  became  so  sweetened  into  feminine 
grace  by  gentleness  of  temper  and  kindliness  of  disposition, 
Rameau  felt  himself  a  better  man.  The  virgin-like  dignity 
with  which  she  moved,  so  untainted  by  a  breath  of  scandal, 
amid  salotis  in  which  the  envy  of  virtues  doubted  sought  to . 
bring  innocence  itself  into  doubt,  warmed  into  a  genuine  rever- 
ence the  cynicism  of  his  professed  creed. 

While  with  her,  while  under  her  chastening  influence,  he 
was  sensible  of  a  poetry  infused  within  him  far  more  true  to 
the  Camoenae  than  all  he  had  elaborated  into  verse.  In  these 
moments  he  was  ashamed  of  the  vices  he  had  courted  as  dis- 
tractions. He  imagined  that,  with  her  all  his  own,  it  would  be 
easy  to  reform. 

No  ;  to  withdraw  wholly  from  Isaura  was  to  renounce  his 
sole  chance  of  redemption. 

While  these  thoughts,  which  it  takes  so  long_  to  detail, 
passed  rapidly  through  his  brain,  he  felt  a  soft  touch  on  his 
arm,  and,  turning  his  face  slowly,  encountered  the  tender,  com- 
passionate eyes  of  Isaura. 

"  Be  consoled,  dear  friend,"'  she  said,  with  a  smile,  half 
cheering,  half  mournful.  "  Perhaps  for  all  true  artists  the  soli- 
tary lot  is  the  best." 

"  I  will  try  to  think  so,","  answered  Rameau  ;  "  and  mean- 
while, I  thank  you  with  a  full  heart  for  the  sweetness  with 
which  you  have  checked  my  presumption — the  presumption 
shall  not  be  repeated.  Gratefully  I  accept  the  friendship  you 
deign  to  tender  me.  You  bid  me  forget  the  words  I  uttered 
Promise  in  turn  that  w//  will  forget  them — or  at  least  consider 
them  withdrawn.     You  will  receive  me  still  as  friend  ?  " 

"As  friend,  surely;  yes.  Do  we  not  both  need  friends  ?_" 
She  held  out  her  hand  as  she  spoke ;  he  bent  over  it,  kissed  it 
with  respect,  and  the  interview  thus  closed. 


THE  PARISIANS.  333 


CHAPTER  V. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  of  that  day  when  a  man  who  had 
the  appearance  of  a  decent  bou?-geois,  in  the  lower  grades  of 
that  comprehensive  class,  entered  one  of  the  streets  in  the 
Faubourg  Montmartre,  tenanted  chiefly  by  artisans.  He  paused 
at  the  open  doorway  of  a  tall  narrow  house,  and  drew  back  as 
he  heard  footsteps  descending  a  very  gloomy  staircase. 

The  light  from  a  gas-lamp  in  the  street  fell  on  the  face  of 
the  person  thus  quitting  the  house — the  face  of  a  young  and 
handsome  man,  dressed  with  the  quiet  elegance  which  betoken- 
ed one  of  higher  rank  or  fashion  than  that  neighborhood  was 
habituated  to  find  among  its  visitors.  The  first  comer  retreat- 
ed promptly  into  the  shade,  and,  as  by  sudden  impulse,  drew 
his  hat  low  down  over  his  eyes. 

The  other  man  did  not,  however,  observe  him,  went  his  wa}' 
with  quick  step  along  the  street,  and  entered  another  house 
some  yards  distant. 

"  What  can  that  pious  Bourbonite  do  here  ?  "  muttered  the 
first  comer.  "  Can  he  be  a  conspirator  ?  Diable  /  Ws  as  dark 
as  Erebus  on  that  staircase. 

Taking  cautious  hold  of  the  banister,  the  man  now  ascended 
the  stairs.  On  the  landing  of  the  first  floor  there  was  a  gas- 
lamp  which  threw  upward  a  faint  ray  that  finally  died  at  the  third 
story.  But  at  the  third  story  the  man's  journey  ended  ;  he 
pulled  a  bell  at  the  door  to  the  right,  and  in  another  moment  or  so 
the  door  was  opened  by  a  young  woman  of  twenty-eight  or  thirty, 
dressed  very  simply,  but  with  a  certain  neatness  not  often  seen  in 
the  wives  of  artisans  in  the  Faubourg  Montmartre,  Her  face, 
which,  though  pale  and  delicate,  retained  much  of  the  beauty  of 
youth,  became  clouded  as  she  recognized  the  visitor;  evidently 
the  visit  was  not  welcome  to  her. 

"  Monsieur  Lebeau  again  !"  she  exclaimed,  shrinking  back. 

"  At  your  service,  chere  dame.  The  good  man  is  of  course 
at  home  ?  Ah,  I  catch  a  sight  of  him,"  and  sliding  by  the 
woman,  M.  Lebeau  passed  the  narrow  lobby  in  which  she  stood 
through  the  open  door  conductin.g  into  the  room  in  which  Ar- 
mand  Monnier  was  seated,  his  chin  propped  on  his  hand,  his 
elbow  resting  on  a  table,  looking  abstractedly  into  space.  In  a 
corner  of  the  room  two  small,  children  were  playing  languidly 


334  T^^^E  PARISIANS. 

with  a  set  of  bone  tablets  inscribed  with  the  letters  of  the  al- 
phabet. But  whatever  the  children  were  doing  with  the  alphabet 
they  were  certainly  not  learning  to  read  from  it. 

The  room  was  of  fair  size  and  height,  and  by  no  means 
barely  or  shabbily  furnished.  There  was  a  pretty  clock  on  the 
mantlepiece.  On  the  wall  were  hung  designs  for  the  decora- 
tion of  apartments,  and  shelves  on  which  were  ranged  a  few 
books. 

The  window  was  open,  and  on  the  sill  were  placed  flow- 
er pots ;  you  could  scent  the  odor  they  wafted  into  the 
room. 

Altogether,  it  was  an  apartment  suited  to  a  skilled  artisan 
earning  high  wages.  From  the  room  we  are  now  in,  branched 
on  ->ne  side  a  small  but  commodious  kitchen  ;  on  the  other  side 
on  N;hich  the  door  was  screened  by  a  portiere,  with  a  border 
prettily  worked  by  female  hands— some  years  ago,  for  it  was 
faded  now — was  a  bedroom,  communicating  with  one  of  less 
size  in  which  the  children  slept.  We  do  not  enter  these  addi- 
tional rooms,  but  it  may  be  well  here  to  mention  them  as  indi- 
cations of  the  comfortable  state  of  an  intelligent  skilled  artisan 
of  Paris,  who  thinks  he  can  better  that  state  by  some  revolu- 
tion which  may  ruin  his  employer. 

Monnier  started  up  at  the  entrance  of  Lebeau,  and  his  face 
showed  that  he  did  not  share  the  dislike  to  the  visits  which  that 
of  the  female  partner  of  his  life  had  evinced.  On  the  contrary, 
his  smile  was  cordial,  and  there  was  a  hearty  ring  in  the  voice 
which  cried  out — 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you — something  to  do  ?     Eh  .?" 

"  Always  ready  to  work  for  liberty,  mo7j  brave.'" 

"  I  hope  so  :  what's  in  the  wind  now  ?" 

"  Oh,  Armand,  be  prudent — be  prudent,"  cried  the  woman 
piteously.  "  Do  not  lead  him  into  further  mischief,  Monsieur 
Lebeau,"  As  she  faltered  forth  the  last  words,  she  bowed  her 
head  over  the  two  little  ones,  and  her  voice  died  in  sobs. 

"  Monnier,"  said  Lebeau,  gravely,  "  Madame  is  right.  I 
ought  not  to  lead  you  into  further  mischief ;  there  are  three  in 
the  room  who  have  better  claims  on  you  than " 

"  The  cause  of  millions  .?  "  interrupted  Monnier.     "  No." 

He  approached  the  woman  and  took  one  of  the  children 
very  tenderly,  stroking  back  its  curls  and  kissing  the  face, 
which,  if  before  surprised  and  saddened  by  the  mother's  sob, 
now  smiled  gayly  under  the  father's  kiss. 

"  Canst  thou  doubt,  my  Heloise,"  said  the  artisan  mildly, 
"  that,   whatever  I  do,  thou  and  these  are  uppermost   in   mv 


THE  PARISIANS. 


335 


thoughts  ?  I  act  for  thy  interest  and  theirs — the  world  as  it 
exists  is  the  foe  of  you  three.  The  world  I  would  replace  it  by 
will  be  more  friendly." 

The  poor  woman  made  no  reply,  but  as  he  drew  her  towards 
him  she  leaned  her  head  upon  his  breast  and  wept  quietly. 
Monnier  led  her  thus  from  the  room,  whispering  words  of  sooth- 
ing. The  children  followed  the  parents  into  the  adjoining  cham- 
ber. In  a  few  minutes  Monnier  returned,  shutting  the  door 
behind  him  and  drawing  \\\q. portiere  close. 

"  You  will  excuse  me,  Citizen,  and  my  poor  wife — wife  she 
is  to  me  and  to  all  who  visit  here,  though  the  law  says  she  is 
not." 

"  I  respect  Madame  the  more  for  her  dislike  to  myself," 
said  Lebeau,  with  a  somewhat  melancholy  smile. 

"  Not  dislike  to  you  personally,  Citizen,  but  dislike  to  the 
business  which  she  connects  with  your  visits  ;  and  she  is  more 
than  usually  agitated  on  that  subject  this  evening,  because,  just 
before  you  came,  another  visitor  had  produced  a  great  eifect  on 
her  feelings — poor  dear  Heloise." 

"  Indeed  !  how  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  was  employed  in  the  winter  in  redecorating  the 
salon  and  boudoir  of  Madame  de  Vandemar ;  her  son,  M. 
Raoul,  took  great  interest  in  superintending  the  details.  He 
would  sometimes  talk  to  me  very  civilly,  not  only  on  my  work, 
but  on  other  matters.  It  seems  that  Madame  now  wants 
something  done  to  the  salle-a-manger,  and  asked  old  Gerard — • 
my  late  master,  you  know — to  send  me.  Of  course  he  said 
that  was  impossible — for,  though  I  was  satisfied  with  my  own 
wages,  I  had  induced  his  other  men  to  strike  and  was  one  of 
the  ringleaders  in  the  recent  strike  of  artisans  in  general — a 
dangerous  man,  and  he  would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
me.  So  M.  Raoul  came  to  see  and  talk  with  me — scarce  gone 
before  you  rang  at  the  bell — you  might  have  almost  met  him 
on  the  stairs." 

"  I  saw  a  beau  inonsieur  come  out  of  the  house.  ^\nd  so 
t's  talk  has  affected  Madame." 

'  Very  much  ;  it  was  quite  brotherlike.  He  is  one  of  the  re« 
ligious  set,  and  they  always  get  at  the  weak  side  of  the  soft 
sex." 

"Ay,"  said  Lebeau,  thoughtfully;  "if  religion  were  ban- 
ished from  the  laws  of  men,  it  would  still  find  a  refuge  in  the 
hearts  of  women.  But  Raoul  de  Vandemar  did  not  presume 
to  preach  to  Madame  upon  the  sin  of  loving  you  and  your 
children  ? " 


336  THE  PARISIANS. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  heard  him  preach  to  her,"  cried 
Monnier,  fiercely.  "  No,  he  only  tried  to  reason  with  me 
about  matters  he  could  not  understand." 

"  Strikes  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  exactly  strikes — he  did  not  contend  that  we 
workmen  had  not  full  right  to  combine  and  to  strike  for  ob- 
taining fairer  money's  worth  for  our  work ;  but  he  tried  ro 
persuade  me  that  where,  as  in  my  case,  it  was  not  a  matter  of 
wages,  but  of  political  principle — of  war  against  capitalists — I 
could  but  injure  myself  and  mislead  others.  He  wanted  to 
reconcile  me  to  old  Gerard,  or  to  let  him  find  me  employment 
elsewhere  ;  and  when  I  told  him  that  my  honor  forbade  me  to 
make  terms  for  myself  till  those  with  whom  I  was  joined  were 
satisfied,  he  said,  '  But  if  this  lasts  much  longer  your  children 
will  not  look  so  rosy  ;  '  then  poor  He'loise  began  to  wring  her 
hands  and  cry,  and  he  took  me  aside  and  wanted  to  press 
money  on  me  as  a  loan.  He  spoke  so  kindly  that  I  could  not 
be  angry  ;  but  when  he  found  I  would  take  nothing,  he  asked 
me  about  some  families  in  the  street  of  whom  he  had  a  list, 
and  who,  he  was  informed,  were  in  great  distress.  That  is 
true  ;  I  am  feeding  some  of  them  myself  out  of  my  savings, 
You  see,  this  young  Monsieur  belongs  to  a  society  of  men, 
many  as  young  as  he  is,  which  visits  the  poor  and  dispenses 
charity.  I  did  not  feel  I  had  a  right  to  refuse  aid  for  others, 
and  I  "told  him  where  his  money  would  be  best  spent.  I  sup- 
pose  he  went  there  when  he  left  me." 

"  I  know  the  society  you  mean, — that  of  St.  Francois  de 
Sales.  It  comprises  some  of  the  most  ancient  of  that  old 
noblesse  to  which  the  ouvriers  in  the  great  Revolution  were  so 
remorseless." 

"We  ouvriers  are  wiser  now;  we  see  that  in  assailing  fhem 
we  gave  ourselves  worse  tyrants  in  the  new  aristocracy  of  the 
capitalists.  Our  quarrel  now  is  that  of  artisans  against  em- 
ployers." 

"Of  course,  I  am  aware  of  that;  but  to  leave  general 
politics,  tell  me  frankly.  How  has  the  strike  affected  you  as 
yet  ?  I  mean  in  purse.  Can  you  stand  its  pressure  ?  If  not, 
you  are  above  the  false  pride  of  not  taking  help  from  me,  a 
fellow-conspirator,  though  you  were  justified  in  refusing  it 
when  offered  by  Raoul  de  Vandemar,  the  servant  of  the 
Church." 

"  Pardon,  I  refuse  aid  from  any  one  except  for  the  com- 
mon cause.  But  do  not  fear  for  me ;  I  am  not  pinched  as 
yet.     I  have  had  high  wages  for  some  years,  and  since  I  and 


THE  PARISIANS. 


337 


Hdloise  came  together  I  have  not  wasted  a  sou  out  of  doors, 
except  in  the  way  of  public  duty,  such  as  making  converts 
at  the  Jean  Jacques  and  elsewhere ;  a  glass  of  beer  and  a 
pipe  don't  cost  much.  And  H^loise  is  such  a  housewife,  so 
thrifty,  scolds  me  if  I  buy  her  a  ribbon,  poor  love  !  No  won- 
der that  I  would  pull  down  a  society  that  dares  to  scoff  at 
her — dares  to  say  she  is  not  my  wife,  and  that  her  children 
are  baseborn.  No,  I  have  some  savings  left  yet.  War  to 
society,  war  to  the  knife  !" 

"  Monnier,"  said  Lebeau,  in  a  voice  that  evinced  emotion, 
"listen  to  me;  I  have  received  injuries  from  society  which, 
when  they  were  fresh,  half  maddened  me — that  is  twenty 
years  ago.  I  would  then  have  thrown  myself  into  any  plot 
against  society  that  proffered  revenge.  But  society,  my  friend, 
is  a  wall  of  very  strong  masonry,  as  it  now  stands  ;  it  may  be 
sapped  in  the  course  of  a  thousand  years,  but  stormed  in  a 
day — no.  You  dash  your  head  against  it — you  scatter  your 
brains,  and  you  dislodge  a  stone.  Society  smiles  in  scorn, 
effaces  the  stain,  replaces  the  stone.  I  no  longer  war  against 
society.  I  do  not  war  against  a  system  in  that  society  which 
is  hostile  to  me — systems  in  France  are  easily  overthrown. 
I  say  this  because  I  want  to  use  you,  and  I  do  not  want  to 
deceive." 

"  Deceive  me,  bah  !  You  are  an  honest  man,"  cried  Mon- 
nier ;  and  he  seized  Lebeau's  hand  and  shook  it  with  warmth 
and  vigor.  "But  for  you  I  should  have  been  a  mere  grumbler. 
No  doubt  I  should  have  cried  out  where  the  shoe  pinched,  and 
railed  against  laws  that  vex  me  ;  but  from  the  moment  you 
first  talked  to  me  I  became  a  new  man.  You  taught  me  to 
act,  as  Rousseau  and  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  had  taught  me 
to  think  and  to  feel.  There  is  my  brother,  a  grumbler  too, 
but  professes  to  have  a  wiser  head  than  mine.  He  is  always 
warning  me  against  you — against  joining  a  strike — against 
doing  anything  to  endanger  my  skin.  I  always  went  by  his 
advice  till  you  taught  me  that  it  is  well  enough  for  women 
to  talk  and  complain ;  men  should  dare  and  do." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Lebeau,  "your  brother  is  a  safer 
(jouusellor  to  a  pere  de  famille  than  I.  I  repeat  what  T  have 
so  often  said  before  :  I  desire,  and  I  resolve,  that  the  Empire 
of  M.  Bonaparte  shall  be  overthrown.  I  see  many  concur- 
rent circumstances  to  render  that  desire  and  resolve  of  prac- 
tical fulfilment.  You  desire  and  resolve  the  same  thing.  Up 
to  that  point  we  can  work  together,  I  have  encouraged  your 
action  only  so  far  as  it  served  my  design ;  but   I  separate  from 


338  THE  PARISIANS. 

you  the  moment  you  would  ask  me  to  aid  your  design  in  the 
hazard  of  experiments  which  ^the  world  has  never  yet  favored, 
and  trust  me,  Monnier,  the  world  never  will  favor." 

"  That  remains  to  be  seen,"  said  Monnier,  with  compressed 
obstinate  lips,  "  Forgive  me,  but  you  are  not  young ;  you 
belong  to  an  old  school." 

"  Poor  young  man  !  "  said  Lebeau,  readjusting  his  specta- 
Cjes,  "  I  recognize  in  you  the  genius  of  Paris,  be  the  genius 
good  or  evil.  Paris  is  never  warned  by  experience.  Be  it  so. 
I  want  you  so  much,  your  enthusiasm  is  so  fiery,  that  I  can 
concede  no  more  to  the  mere  sentiment  which  makes  me  say  to 
myself,  'It  is  a  shame  to  use  this  great-hearted,  wrongheaded 
creature  for  my  personal  ends."  I  come  at  once  to  the  point — • 
that  is,  the  matter  on  which  I  seek  you  this  evening.  At  my 
suggestion,  you  have  been  a  ringleader  in  strikes  which  have 
terribly  shaken  the  Imperial  system,  more  than  its  Ministers 
deem  ;  now  I  want  a  man  like  you  to  assist  in  a  bold  demon- 
stration against  the  Imperial  resort  to  a  rural  priest-riddeii 
suffrage,  on  the  part  of  the  enlightened  working-class  of  Paris." 

"  Good  !  "  said  Monnier. 

"  In  a  day  or  two  the  result  of  \he  plebiscite  will  be  known. 
The  result  of  universal  suffrage  will  be  enormously  in  favor  of 
the  desire  expressed  by  one  man." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Monnier,  stoutly.  "  France  can- 
not be  so  hoodwinked  by  the  priests." 

"  Take  what  I  say  for  granted,"  resumed  Lebeau  calmly. 
"On  the 8th  of  this  month  we  shall  know  the  amount  of  the 
majority — some  millions  of  French  votes.  I  want  Paris  to 
separate  itself  from  France  and  declare  against  those  blunder- 
ing millions,  I  want  an  etneute,  or  rather  a  menacing  demon- 
stration— not  a  premature  revolution,  mind.  You  must  avoid 
bloodshed." 

"  It  is  easy  to  say  that  beforehand  ;  but  when  a  crowd  ©f 
men  once  meets  in  the  streets  of  Paris " 

"  It  can  do  much  by  meeting,  and  cherishing  resentment  if 
the  meeting  be  dispersed  by  an  armed  force,  which  it  would 
be  waste  of  life  to  resist." 

"  We  shall  see  when  the  time  comes,"  said  Monnier,  with  a 
fierr.e  gleam  in  his  bold  eyes. 

"  I  tell  you,  all  that  is  required  at  this  moment  is  an  evi- 
dent protest  of  the  artisans  of  Paris  against  the  votes  of  the 
'  rurals'  of  France.     Do  you  comprehend  me  .''  " 

"  I  think  so  ;  if  not,  I  obey.  What  we  ouvriers  waciL  is 
what  we  have  not  got — a  head  to  dictate  action  to  us." 


THE  PARISIANS.  339 

**  See  to  this,  then.  Rouse  the  men  you  can  command.  I 
will  take  care  that  you  have  plentiful  aid  from  foreigners  We 
may  trust  to  the  confreres  of  our  council  to  enlist  Poles  and 
Italians  ;  Gaspard  le  Noy  will  turn  out  the  volunteer  rioters  at 
his  command.  Let  the  emeute  be  withinv  say,  a  week  after  the 
vote  of  the  plebiscite  is  taken.  You  will  oeed  that  time  to  pre- 
pare." 

"  Be  contented — it  shall  be  done." 

"  Good-night,  then."  Lebeau  leisurely  took  up  his  hat  and 
drew  on  his  gloves  ;  then,  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden  thought,  he 
turned  briskly  on  the  artisan,  and  said,  in  quick,  blunt  tones — • 

"  Armand  Monnier,  explain  to  me  why  it  is  that  you — a 
Parisian  artisan,  the  type  of  a  class  the  most  insubordinate, 
the  most  self-conceited,  that  exists  on  the  face  of  earth — take 
without  question,  with  so  docile  a  submission,  the  orders  of  a 
man  who  plainly  tells  you  he  does  not  sympathize  in  your 
ultimate  objects,  of  whom  you  really  know  very  little,  and  whose 
views  you  candidly  own  you  think  are  those  of  an  old  and 
obsolete  school  of  political  reasoners." 

"  You  puzzle  me  to  explain,"  said  Monnier,  with  an  in- 
genuous laugh,  that  brightened  up  features  stern  and  hard, 
though  comely  when  in  repose.  "  Partly,  because  you  are  so 
straightforward,  and  do  not  talk  blague  ;  partly,  because  I  don't 
think  the  class  I  belong  to  would  stir  an  inch  unless  we  had  a 
leader  of  another  class — and  you  give  me  at  least  that  leader. 
Again,  you  go  to  that  first  stage  which  we  all  agree  to  take, 
and — well,  do  you  want  me  to  explain  more  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Eh  bien  !  you  have  warned  me,  like  an  honest  man  ;  like 
a  1  honest  man  I  warn  you.  That  first  step  we  take  together ; 
I  want  to  go  a  step  further  ;  you  retreat,  you  say,  No  ;  I  reply, 
You  are  committed :  that  further  step  you  must  take,  or  I  cry 
•  traitre  ! — a  la  lanterne  /'  You  talk  of  '  superior  experience  ;* 
bah !  what  does  experience  really  tell  you  ?  Do  you  suppose 
that  Louise  Egalit^,  when  he  began  to  plot  against  Louis  XVI., 
meant  to  vote  for  his  kinsman's  execution  by  the  guillotine  ? 
Do  you  suppose  that  Robespierre,  when  he  commenced  his 
career  as  the  foe  of  capital  punishment,  foresaw  that  he  should 
be  the  Minister  of  the  Reign  of  Terror  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
Each  was  committed  by  his  use  of  those  he  designed  for  his 
tools  :  so  must  you  be — or  you  perish." 

Lebeau,  leaning  against  the  door,  heard  the  frank  avowal  he 
had  courted  without  betraying  a  change  of  countenance.     But 


340 


THE  PARISIANS. 


when  Armand  Monnier  had  done,  a  slight  movement   of  his 
lips  showed  emotion  :  was  it  of  fear  or  disdain  ? 

"  Monnier,"  he  said,  gently,  "  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you 
for  the  manly  speech  you  have  made.  The  scruples  which 
my  conscience  had  before  entertained  are  dispelled.  I  dreaded 
lest  I,  a  declared  wolf,  might  seduce  into  peril  an  innocent 
sheep.  I  see  I  have  to  deal  with  a  wolf  of  younger  vigor  and 
sharper  fangs  than  myself ;  so  much  the  better :  obey  my 
orders  now  ;  leave  it  to  time  to  say  whether  I  obey  yours 
later.     Au  tevoir.''' 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Isaura's  apartment,  on  the  following  Thursday  evening, 
was  more  filled  than  usual.  Besides  her  habitual  devotees  in 
the  artistic  or  literary  world,  there  were  diplomatists  and 
deputies  commixed  with  many  fair  chiefs  oi  la  Jeunesse  (ioree\ 
among  the  latter  the  brilliant  Enguerrand  de  Vandemar,  who, 
deeming  the  acquaintance  of  every  celebrity  essential  to  his 
own  celebrity,  in  either  Carthage,  the  beau  ?nonde,  or  the  detni- 
tnonde,  had,  two  Thursdays  before  made  Louvier  attend  her  soiree 
and  present  him.  Louvier,  though  gathering  to  his  own  salons 
authors  and  artists,  very  rarely  favored  their  rooms  with  his 
presence ;  he  did  not  adorn  Isaura's  party  that  evening. 
But  Duplessis  was  there,  in  compensation.  It  had  chanced  that 
Valerie  had  met  Isaura  at  some  house  in  the  past  winter,  and 
conceived  an  enthusiastic  affection  for  her  :  since  then  Valerie 
came  very  often  to  see  her,  and  made  a  point  of  dragging  with 
her  to  Isaura's  Thursday  reunions  her  obedient  father.  Soirees, 
musical  or  literary,  were  not  much  in  his  line  ;  but  he  had  no 
pleasure  like  that  of  pleasing  his  spoilt  child.  Our  old  friend 
Frederic  Lemercier  was  also  one  of  Isaura's  guests  that  night. 
He  had  become  more  and  more  intimate  with  Duplessis, 
and  Duplessis  had  introduced  him  to  the  fair  Valerie  as  "  un 
jeune  homme plein  de  tnoyens,  qui  ira  loinJ' 

Savarin  was  there,  of  course,  and  brought  with  him  an  En- 
glish gentleman  of  the  name  of  Bevil,  as  well  known  at  Varis  as 
in  London, — invited  everywhere — popular,  everywhere — one  of 
those  welcome  contributors  to  the  luxuries  of  civilized  society 
who  trade  in  gossip,  sparing  no  pains  to  get  the  pick  of  it,  and 


THE  PARISIANS.  341 

exchanging  it  liberally,  sometimes  for  a  haunch  of  venison  and 
sometimes  for  a  cup  of  tea.  His  gossip,  not  being  adulterated 
with  malice,  was  in  high  repute  for  genuine  worth. 

If  Bevil  said,  "  this  story  is  a  fact,"  you  no  more  thought  .'f 
doubting  him  than  you  would  doubt  Rothschild  if  he  said,  "  This 
is  Lati^te  of  '48." 

Mr,  J]evil  was  at  present  on  a  very  short  stay  at  Paris,  and, 
naturallv  wishins:  to  make  the  most  of  his  short  time,  he  did  not 
tarry  beside  Savarin,  but,  after  being  introduced  to  Isaura,  flit- 
led  here  and  there  through  the  assembly. 

"Apis  Matinas — 
More  modoque — 
Grata  carpentis  thyma" — 

The  bee  proffers  honey,  but  bears  a  sting. 

The  room  was  at  its  fullest  when  Gustave  Rameau  entered 
accompanied  by  Monsieur  de  Mauleon. 

Isaura  was  agreeably  surprised  by  the  impression  made  on 
her  by  the  Vicomte's  appearance  and  manner.  His  writings, 
and  such  as  she  had  heard  of  his  earlier  repute,  had  prepared 
her  to  see  a  man  decidedly  old,  of  withered  aspect  and  sar 
donic  smile — aggressive  in  demeanor — forward  or  contemptuous 
in  his  very  politeness — a  Methistopheles  engrafted  on  the  stem 
of  Don  Juan.  She  was  startled  by  the  sight  of  one  who,  despite 
his  forty-eight  years — and  at  Paris  a  man  is  generally  older  at 
forty-eight  than  he  is  elsewhere — seemed  in  the  zenith  of  a  ri- 
pened manhood — startled  yet  more  by  the  singular  modesty  of 
a  deportment  too  thoroughly  high-bred  not  to  be  quietly  simple 
— startled  most  by  a  melancholy  expression  in  eyes  that  could 
be  at  times  soft,  though  always  so  keen,  and  in  the  grave  pathe- 
tic smile  w^hich  seemed  to  disarm  censure  for  past  faults  by  say- 
ing, "  I  have  known  sorrows." 

He  did  not  follow  up  his  introduction  to  his  young  hostess 
by  any  of  the  insipid  phrases  of  compliment  to  which  she  was 
accustomed ;  but,  after  expressing  in  grateful  terms  his  thanks 
for  the  honor  she  had  permitted  Rameau  to  confer  upon  him, 
he  moved  aside,  as  if  he  had  no  right  to  detain  her  from  other 
guests  more  worthy  her  notice,  towards  the  doorway,  taking  his 
place  by  ?]nguerrand  amidst  a  group  of  men  of  whom  Duplessis 
was  the  central  figure, 

At  that  time — the  first  week  in  May,  1870  all  who  were 
in  Paris  will  remember  there  were  two  subjects  uppermost 
in  the  mouths  of  men  :  first,  the.  plebiscite ;  secondly,  the  conspi- 


342  THE  I'ARISIAxVS. 

racy  to  murder  the  Emperor, — which  the  disinfected  considered 
to  be  a  mere  fable,  a  pretence  got  up  in  time  to  serve  the 
plebiscite  and  prop  tlae  Empire. 

Upon  this  latter  subject  Duplessis  had  been  expressing  him- 
self with  unwonted  animation.     A  loyal  and  earnest  Imperialist 
it  was  only  with  effort  that  he  could  repress  his  scorn  of  that 
meanest  sort  of  gossip  which  is  fond  of  ascribing  petty  motives 
to  eminent  men. 

To  him  nothing  could  be  more  clearly  evident  than  the  reality 
of  this  conspiracy,  and  he  had  no  tolerance  for  the  malignant 
absurdity  of  maintaining  that  the  Emperor  or  his  Ministers  could 
be  silly  and  wicked  enough  to  accuse  seventj'-two  persons  of  a 
crime  which  the  police  had  been  instructed  to  invent. 

As  De  Maule'on  approached,  the  financier  brought  his  speech 
to  an  abrupt  close.  He  knew  in  Vicomte  de  Mauleon  the  writer 
of  articles  which  had  endangered  the  government  and  aimed  no 
pointless  shafts  against  its  Imperial  head. 

"_  My  cousin."  said  Enguerrand,  gayly,  as  he  exchanged  a 
cordial  shake  of  the  hand  with  Victor/"'!  congratulate  you  on 
the  fame  of  journalist,  into  which  you  have  vaulted,  armed  cap- 
a-pie,  like  a  knight  of  old  into  his  saddle  ;  but  I  don't  sympathize 
with  the  means  you  have  taken  to  arrive  at  that  renown.  I  am 
not  myself  an  Imperialist — a  Vandemar  can  be  scarcely  that.  But 
if  I  am  compelled  to  be  on  board  a  ship,  I  don't  wish  to  take 
out  its  planks  and  let  in  an  ocean,  when  all  offered  to  me  in- 
stead is  a  crazy  tub  and  a  rotten  rope." 

"  Tres-bten,"  said  Duplessis,  in  Parliamentary  tone  and 
phrase. 

'•  But,"  said  de  Maulee'on,  with  his  calm  smile,  "  would  you 
like  the  captain  of  the  ship,  when  the  sky  darkened  and  the  sea 
ros(^  to  ask  the  common  sailors  *  whether  they  approved  his 
conduct  on  altering  his  course  or  shortening  his  sail  ' }  Better 
trust  to  a  crazy  tub  and  a  rotten  rope  than  to  a  ship  in  which  the 
captain  consults  a  plebiscite^' 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Duplessis,  "  your  metaphor  is  ill-chosen — 
no  metaphor  indeed  is  needed.  The  head  of  the  State  was 
chosen  by  the  voice  of  the  people,  and,  when  required  to  change 
the  form  of  administration  which  the  people  had  sanctioned, 
and  inclined  to  do  so  from  motives  the  most  patriotic  and  lib- 
eral, he_  is  bound  again  to  consult  the  people  from  whom  he 
holds  his  power.  It  is  not,  however,  of  the.  plebiscite  vi^  were 
conversing,  so  much  as  of  the  atrocious  conspiracy  of  assassins 
— so  happily  discovered  in  time.  I  presume  that  Monsieur  de 
Mauleon  must  share  the  indignation  which  true  Frenchmen  of 


TJfE  PARISIANS. 


343 


ever)  party  must  feel  against  a  combinaticm  united  by  the  purpose 
of  murder." 

The  Vicomte  bowed,  as  in  assent. 

"  But  do  you  believe,"  asked  a  Liberal  Deputy  "  that  such 
a  combination  existed,  except  in  the  visions  of  the  police  or  the 
cabinet  of  a  Minister." 

Duplessis  looked  keenly  at  De  Mauleon  while  this  question 
was  put  to  him.  Belief  or  disbelief  in  the  conspiracy  was  with 
him,  and  with  many,  the  test  by  which  a  sanguinary  revolutionist 
w^as  distinguished  from  an  honest  politician. 

"  Ma  foi"  answered  De  Mauleon,  shrugging  hi';  shoulders, 
*'  I  have  only  one  belief  left  ;  but  that  is  boundless.  I  believs 
in  the  folly  of  mankind  in  general,  and  of  Frenchmen  in  par 
ticular.  That  seventy-two  men  should  plot  the  assassination  of 
a  sovereign  on  whose  life  interests  so  numerous  and  so  watchful 
depend,  and  imagine  they  could  keep  a  secret  which  any  drunk- 
ard among  them  would  blab  out,  any  tatterdemalion  would  sell, 
is  a  betise  so  gross  that  I  think  it  highly  probable.  But  pardon 
me  if  I  look  upon  the  politics  of  Paris  much  as  I  do  upon  its 
mud — one  must  pass  though  it  when  one  walks  in  the  street  ; 
one  changes  one's  shoes  before  entering  the  salon.  A  word 
with  you,  Enguerrand," — and  taking  his  kinsman's  arm,  he  drew 
him  aside  from  the  circle.  "  What  has  become  of  your  brother  ? 
I  see  nothing  of  him  now." 

"  Oh,  Raoul,"  answered  Enguerrand,  throwing  himself  on  a 
couch  in  a  recess,  and  making  room  for  De  Mauleon  beside 
him — "  Raoul  is  devoting  himself  to  the  distressed  ouvriers  who 
have  chosen  to  withdraw  from  work.  When  he  fails  to  persuade 
them  to  return,  he  forces  food  and  fuel  on  their  wives  and 
children.  My  good  mother  encourages  him  in  this  costly  under- 
taking, and  no  one  bu*.  you  who  believe  in  the  infinity  of  human 
folly  credit  me  when  I  tell  you  that  his  eloquence  has  drawn 
from  me  all  the  argent  de poche  I  get  from  our  shop.  As  for 
himself,  he  has  sold  his  horses,  and  even  grudges  a  cab-fare, 
saying.  '  That  is  a  meal  for  a  family.'  Ah  !  if  he  had  but  gone 
into  the  Church,  what  a  saint  would  have  deserved  canoniza- 
tion !" 

"  Do  not  lament — he  will  probably  have  what  is  abetter  claim 
than  mere  saintship  on  Heaven — martyrdom,"  said  De  Mauleon, 
with  a  smile  in  which  sarcasm  disappeared  in  melancholy.  "  Poor 
Raoul  !  And  what  of  my  other  cousin,  the  beau  Marquis  1 
Several  months  ago  his  Legtimist  faith  seemed  vacillating — he 
talked  to  me  very  fairly  about  the  duties  a  Frenchman  owed  to 
France,  and  hinted  that  he  should  place  his  sword  at  the  com- 


244  THE  PARISIANS. 

mand  of  Napoleon  III.     I  have  not  yet  heard  of  him  as  3    V^to' 
de  France — I  hear  a  great  deal  of  him  as  a  viveur  de  Pan    ' 

"  Don't  you  know  why  his  desire  for  a  military  careet  wa^ 
frostbitten  ?  " 

"No  ?  why?" 

"  Alain  came  from  Bretagne  profoundly  ignorant  of  irosl 
things  known  to  a  gamin  of  Paris.  When  he  conscientioys!'} 
overcame  the  scruples  natural  to  one  of  his  name,  and  told  the 
Duchesse  de  Tarascon  that  he  was  ready  to  fight  under  1h< 
flag  of  France  whatever  its  color,  he  had  a  vague  reminiscence 
of  ancestral  Rochebriants  earning  early  laurels  at  the  head  o' 
their  regiments.  At  all  events,  he  assumed  as  a  matter  of 
course  that  he,  in  the  first  rank  as  genlilhomme,  would  enter  the 
army,  if  as  a  sous-Iieiitenant,  still  as  ge?itilhomme.  But  when  tolc 
that,  as  he  had  been  at  no  military  college,  he  could  only  entej 
the  ranks  as  a  private  soldier — herd  with  private  soldiers  for  aJ 
least  two  years  before,  passing  though  the  grade  of  corporal,  hi? 
brith,  education,  and  habits  of  life  could  with  great  favor,  rais*! 
him  to  the  station  of  a  sous-lieutenant,  you  may  conceive  that  tha 
martial  ardor  of  a  Rochebriant  was  somewhat  cooled." 

"  If  he  knew  what  the  dormitory  of  French  privates  is,  anr' 
how  difficult  a  man  well  educated,  well  brought  up,  finds  it 
first,  to  endure  the  coarsest  ribaldry  and  the  loudest  blas- 
phemy, and  then,  having  endured  and  been  compelled  to  sharo 
them,  ever  enforce  obedience  and  disciplinecas  a  superior  among 
those  with  whom  just  before  he  was  an  equal,  his  ardor  would 
not  have  been  merely  cooled — it  would  have  been  changed  into 
despair  for  the  armies  of  France  if  hereafter  they  are  met  bj 
those  whose  officers  have  been  trained  to  be  officers  from  the 
outset,  and  have  imbibed  from  their  cradle  an  education  not 
taught  to  the  boy-pedants  from  school — the  twofold  education 
how  with  courtesy  to  command,  how  with  dignity  to  obey.  To 
return  to  Rochebriant,  such  salons  as  I  frequent  are  somewhat 
formal — as  befits  my  grave  years  and  my  modest  income  I  may 
add,  now  that  you  know  my  vocation, — befits  me  also  as  a  man 
who  seeks  rather  to  be  instructed  than  amused.  In  those  salons 
I  did,  last  year,  sometimes,  however,  meet  Rochebriant — as  I 
sometimes  still  meet  you  ;  but  of  late  he  has  deserted  such  sober 
reunions,  and  I  hear  with  pain  that  he  is  drifting  among  those 
rocks  against  which  my  own  youth  was  shipwrecked.  Is  the 
report  true  ?" 

"  I  fear,"  said  Enguerrand,  reluctantly,  "  that  at  least  the  re- 
port is  not  unfounded.  And  my  conscience  accuses  me  of  hav- 
ing been  to  blame  in  the  first  instance^     You  see,  when  Alain 


THE  PARTSTANS.  343 

made  terms  with  I.ouvier  by  which  he  obtained  a  very  fair  in- 
come, if  prudeiuly  managed,  I  naturally  wished  that  a  man  of 
so  many  claims  to  social  distinction,  and  who  represents  the 
oldest  branch  of  my  family,  should  take  his  right  place  in  our 
world  of  Paris.  I  gladly  therefore  presented  him  to  the  houses 
and  the  men  most  a  la  mode — advised  him  as  to  the  sort  of 
establishment,  in  apartments,  horses,  etc.,  which  it  appeared  to 
me  that  he  might  reasonably  afiford — I  mean  such  as,  with  his 
means,  I  "should  have  prescribed  to  myself " 

"  All !  I  understand.  But  you,  dear  Enguerrand,  are  a  born 
Parisian,  every  inch  of  you;  and  a  born  Parisian,  is,  whatever 
be  thought  to  the  contrary,  the  best  manager  in  the  world.  He 
alone  achieves  the  difficult  art  of  uniting  fhrift  with  show.  It 
is  your  Provincial,  who  comes  to  Paris  in  the  freshness  of  un- 
dimmed  youth,  who  sows  his  whole  life  on  its  barren  streets.  I 
guess  the  rest :  Alain  is  ruined." 

Enguerrand,  who  certainly  was  so  far  a  born  Parisian  that 
with  all  his  shrewdness  and  savoir-faire^  he  had  a  wonderfully 
sympathetic  heart,  very  easily  moved,  one  way  or  the  other — • 
Enguerrand  winced  at  his  elder  kinsman's  words,  compliment 
arily  reproachful,  and  said,  in  unwonted  tones  of  humility 
"  Cousin,  you  are  cruel,  but  you  are  in  the  right.  I  did  not 
calculate  sufficiently  on  the  chances  of  Alain's  head  being 
turned.  Hear  my  excuse.  He  seemed  to  me  so  much  more 
thoughtful  than  most  at  our  age  are,  so  much  more  stately  and 
proud — well,  also  so  much  more  pure,  so  impressed  with  the 
responsibilities  of  station,  so  bent  on  retaining  the  old  lands  in 
Bretagne  ;  by  habit  and  rearing  so  simple  and  self  denying, — 
that  I  took  it  for  granted  he  was  proof  against  stronger  temp- 
tations than  those  which  a  light  nature  like  my  own  puts  aside 
with  a  laugh.  And  at  first  I  had  no  reason  to  think  myself 
deceived, — when,  some  months  ago,  I  heard  that  he  was  getting 
into  debt,  losing  at  play,  paying  court  to  female  vampires, 
who  drain  the  life-blood  of  those  on  whom  they  fasten  their  fatal 
lips.     Oh,  then  I  spoke  to  him  earnestly!" 

"  And  in  vain  ?" 

"  In  vain.  A  certain  Chevalier  de  Finisterre,  whom  you 
may  have  heard  of " 

"  Certainlv,  and  met ;  a  friend  of  Louvier's " 

"  The  same  man — has  obtained  over  him  an  influence  which 
so  far  subdues  mine  that  he  almost  challenged  me  when  I  told 
him  his  friend  was  a  scamp.  In  fine,  though  Alain  and  I  have 
not  actually  quarrelled,  we  pass  each  other  witli,  '  Boii-joiir  mon 
avii. '  " 


346  THE  PARISIANS. 

"  Hum  !  My  dear  Enguerrand,  you  have  done  all  you  could. 
Flies  will  be  flies,  and  spiders,  spiders,  till  the  earth  is  destroyed 
by  a  comet.  Nay,  I  met  a  distinguished  naturalist  in  America 
who  maintained  that  we  shall  find  flies  and  spiders  in  the  next 
world." 

"You  have  been  in  America?  Ah,  true — I  remember, 
C'alifornia  !  " 

"  Where  have  I  not  been  ?  Tush  !  music — shall  I  hear  our 
tair  hostess  sing  ?  " 

"  1   am   afraid  not  to-night ;  because   Madame  S is  to 

favor  us,  and  the  Signorina  makes  it  a  rule  not  to  sing  at  her 
own  house  when  professional  artists  do.  You  must  hear  the 
Cicogna  quietly  some  day  ;  such  a  voice  !  nothing  like  it." 

Madame  S ,  who,  since  she  had  learned  that  there  was 

no  cause  to  apprehend  that  Isaura  might  become  her  profes- 
sional rival,  conceived  for  her  a  wonderful  affection,  and  will- 
ingly contributed  her  magnificent  gifts  of  song  to  the  charms  of 
Isaura's  salon^  now  began  a  fragment  from  "'■  I Puriiani"  which 
held  the  audience  as  silent  as  the  ghosts  listening  to  Sappho ; 
and  when  it  was  over,  several  of  the  guests  slipped  away,  espe- 
cially those  who  disliked  music  and  feared  Madame  S might 

begin  again.  Enguerrand  was  not  one  of  such  soulless  recreants, 
but  he  had  many  other  places  to  go  to.  Besides,  Madame  S — 
—  was  no  novelty  to  him. 

De  Mauleon  now  approached   Isaura,  who  was  seated  next 

to  Val(fria,  and,  after  well-merited  eulogium  on  Madame  S 's 

performance,  slid  into  some  critical  comparisons  between  that 
singer  and  those  of  a  former  generation,  which  interested 
Isaura,  and  evinced  to  her  quick  perceptions  that  kind  of  love 
for  music  which  has  been  refined  by  more  knowledge  of  the  art 
than  is  common  to  mere  amateurs. 

"  You  have  studied  music,  Monsieur  de  Mauldon,"  she  said. 
"  Do  you  not  perform  yourself  "i  " 

"  1  ?  No.  But  music  has  always  had  a  fatal  attraction  to  me. 
I  ascribe  half  the  errors  of  my  life  to  that  temperament  which 
makes  me  too  fascinated  by  harmonies — too  revolted  by  dis- 
cords." 

"  I  should  have  thought  such  a  temperament  would  have  lei 
from  errors — are  not  errors  discords  ?  " 

"  To  the  inner  sense,  yes  ;  but  to  the  outer  sense  not  al- 
n-ays.  Virtues  are  often  harsh  to  the  ear — errors  very  sweet- 
voiced.  The  sirens  did  not  sing  out  of  tune.  Better  to  stop 
one's  ears  than  glide  on  Scylla  or  be  merged  into  Charybdis." 


THE  PARISIANS. 


347 


"  Monsieur,"  cried  Valdrie,  with  a  pretty  brusqiurie  which 
became  her  well,   "  you  talk  like  a  Vandal." 

"  It  is,  I  think,  by  Mademoiselle  Duplessis  that  I  have  the 
honor  to  be  rebuked.  Is  Monsieur  your  father  very  susceptible 
to  music  .''  " 

"  Well,  I  cannot  say  that  he  cares  much  for  it.  But  then  his 
mind  is  so  practical " 

"And  his  life  so  successful.  No  Scylla,  no  Charybdis  for 
him.  However,  Mademoiselle,  I  am  not  quite  the  Vandal  you 
suppose.  I  do  not  say  that  susceptibility  to  the  influence  of 
music  may  not  be  safe,  nay,  healthful,  to  others — it  was  not  so 
to  me  in  my  youth.     It  can  do  me  no  harm  now." 

Here  Duplessis  came  up,  and  whispered  his  daughter  "  it  was 
time  to  leave  ;  they  had  promised  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon  to 
assist  at  the  soiree,  she  gave  that  night."  Valeria  took  her 
father's  arm  with  a  brightening  smile  and  a  heightened  color. 
Alain  de  Rochebriant  might  probably  be  at  the  Duchesse's. 

"  Are  you  not  going  also  to  the  Hotel  de  Tarascon,  M.  de 
Mauleon  t  "  asked  Duplessis. 

"  No  ;  I  was  never  there  but  once.  The  Duchesse  is  an 
Imperialist,  at  once  devoted  and  acute,  and  no  doubt  very  soon 
divined  my  lack  of  faith  in  her  idols." 

Duplessis  frowned,  and  hastily  led  VaMria  away. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  room  was  comparatively  deserted.  De 
Mauleon,  however,  lingered  by  the  side  of  Isaura  till  all  the 
other  guests  were  gone.  Even  then  he  lingered  still,  and  re- 
newed the  interrupted  conversation  with  her,  the  Venosta  join- 
ing therein  ;  and  so  agreeable  did  he  make  himself  to  her  Ital- 
ian tastes  by  a  sort  of  bitter-sweet  wisdom  like  that  of  her  native 
proverbs — comprising  much  knowledge  of  mankind  on  the  un- 
flattering side  of  humanity  in  that  form  of  pleasantry-  which  has 
a  latent  sentiment  of  pathos — that  the  Venosta  exclaimed — 

"  Surely  you  must  have  been  brought  up  in  Florence  ! " 

There  was  that  in  De  Mauldon's  talk  hostile  to  all  which  we 
call  romance  that  excited  the  imagination  of  Isaura,  and  com- 
pelled her  instinctive  love  for  whatever  is  more  sweet,  more  beau- 
tiful, more  ennobling  on  the  many  sides  of  human  life,  to  oppose 
what  she  deemed  the  paradoxes  of  a  man  who  had  taught  him 
self  to  belie  even  his  own  nature.  She  became  eloquent,  and 
her  countenance,  which  in  ordinary  moments  owed  much  of  its 
beauty  to  an  expression  of  meditative  gentleness,  was  now  lighted 
up  by  the  energ)'  of  earnest  conviction — the  enthusiasm  of  an 
impassioned  zeal. 

Gradually  De  Mauleon  relaxed  his   share  in  the  dialogue, 


348  Tffi!-  PAR  JS J  A  AS. 

and  listened  to  her,  rapt  and  dreainingly  as  in  his  fiery  youth  he 
had  listened  to  the  songs  of  the  sirens.  No  siren  Isaura  !  She 
was  defending  her  own  cause,  though  unconsciously — defending 
tlie  vocation  of  art  as  the  embellisher  of  external  nature,  and 
more  than  embellisher  of  the  nature  which  dwells  crude,  but 
plastic,  in  the  soul  of  man  ;  indeed  therein  the  creator  of  a  new 
nature,  strengthened,  expanded,  and  brightened  in  proportion 
as  it  accumulates  the  ideas  that  tend  beyond  tht  boundaries  of 
the  visible  and  materia!  nature,  which  is  finite  ;  forever  seeking 
in  the  unseen  and  the  spiritual  the  goals  in  the  infinite  which  it 
is  their  instinct  to  divine. 

"  That  which  you  contemptuously  call  romance,"  said  Isaura, 
"  is  not  essential  only  to  poets  and  artists.  The  most  real  side 
of  every  life,  from  the  earliest  dawn  of  mind  in  the  infant,  is  the 
romantic. 

*'  When  the  child  is  weaving  flower-chains,  chasing  butter- 
flies, or  sitting  apart  and  dreaming  what  it  will  do  in  the  future, 
is  not  that  the  child's  real  life,  and  yet  is  it  not  also  the  roman- 
tic ?  " 

"  But  there  comes  a  time  when  we  weave  no  flower-chains 
and  chase  no  butterflies." 

"  Is  it  so  i* — still,  on  one  side  of  life,  flowers  and  butterflies 
may  be  found  to  the  last ;  and  at  least  to  the  last  are  there  no 
dreams  of  the  future  ?  Have  you  no  such  dreams  at  this  moment } 
and  without  the  romance  of  such  dreams,  would  there  be  any 
reality  to  human  life  which  could  distinguish  it  from  the  life  of 
the  weed  that  rots  on  Lethe  ? " 

"  Alas,  Mademoiselle,"  said  De  MauMon,  rising  to  take 
leave,  "  your  argument  must  rest  without  answer.  I  would 
not,  if  I  could,  confute  the  beautiful  belief  that  belongs  to 
youth,  fusing  into  one  rainbow  all  the  tints  that  can  color  the 
world.  But  the  Signora  Venosta  will  acknowledge  the  truth  of 
an  old  saying  expressed  in  every  civilized  language,  but  best, 
perhaps,  in  that  of  the  Florentine — '  You  might  as  well  physic 
the  dead  as  instruct  the  old.'  " 

"  But  you  are  not  old  !  "  said  the  Venosta,  with  Florentine 
politeness, — "  you  !  not  a  gray  hair." 

*'  '  Tis  not  by  the  gray  of  the  hair  that  one  knows  the  age 
of  the  heart,'"  answered  De  MauMon,  in  another  paraphrase  of 
Italian  proverb,  and  he  was  gone. 

As  he  walked  homeward,  through  deserted  streets,  Victor 
de  Maul^on  thought  to  himself,  "  Poor  girl,  how  I  pity  her  I 
manied  to  a  Gus^ave  Rameau — married  to  any  man — nothing 
in  the  nature  of   man,  be  he  ihe   best  and  the  cleverest,  can 


THE  PARISIANS. 


349 


ever  realize  the  dream  of  a  girl  who  is  pnre  and  has  genius. 
Ah,  is  not  the  converse  true  ?  What  girl,  the  best  and  the 
cleverest,  comes  up  to  the  ideal  of  even  a  commonplace  man 
— if  he  ever  dreamed  of  an  ideal !  "  Then  he  paused,  and  in 
a  moment  or  so  afterwards  his  thoughts  knew  such  questionings 
no  more.  It  turned  upon  personalities,  on  stratagems  and 
plots,  on  ambition.  The  man  had  more  than  his  share  of  that 
peculiar  susceptibility  which  is  one  of  the  characteristics  of  his 
countrymen — susceptibility  to  immediate  impulse — suscepti- 
bility to  fleeting  impressions.  It  was  a  key  to  many  m3'^steries 
in  his  character  when  he  owned  his  subjection  to  the  influence 
of  music,  and  in  music  recognized  not  the  seraph's  harp,  but 
the  siren's  song.  If  you  could  have  permanently  fixed  Victor 
de  Maule'on  in  one  of  the  good  moments  of  his  life  even  now 
— some  moment  of  exquisite  kindness — of  superb  generosity — • 
of  dauntless  courage — you  would  have  secured  a  very  rare 
specimen  of  noble  humanity.  But  so  to  fix  him  was  impossible. 
That  impulse  of  the  moment  vanished  the  moment  after  ; 
swept  aside  by  the  force  of  his  very  talents — talents  concen- 
trated by  his  intense  sense  of  individuality — sense  of  wrongs 
or  of  rights — interests  or  objects  personal  to  himself.  He  ex- 
tended the  royal  saying,  "  L'etat,  c'esttnoi,"  to  words  far  more 
grandiloquent.  "  The  universe,  'tis  I."  The  Venosta  would 
have  understood  him  and  smiled  approvingly,  if  he  had  said, 
with  good-humored  laugh,  "  I  dead,  the  world  is  dead  ! "  That 
is  an  Italian  proverb,  and  means  much  the  same  thing. 


BOOK  VIII. 

CHAPTER  I, 

On  the  8th  of  May  the  vote  of  the  plebiscite  was  recorded, 
— between  seven  and  eight  millions  of  Frenchmen  in  support 
of  the  Imperial  programme — in  plain  words,  of  the  Emperor 
himself  against  a  minority  of  1,500,000.  But  among  the 
1,500,000  were  the  old  throne-shakers — those  who  compose 
and  those  who  lead  the  mob  of  Paris,  On  the  14th,  as  Rameau 
was  about  to  quit  the  editorial  bureau  of  his  printing-office,  a 
note  was  brought  to  him  which  strongly  excited  his  nervous 
system.     It  contained  a  request  to  see  him  forthwith,  signed  by 


,-0  THE  FAKISJAX\S. 

those  two  distinguished  foreign  members  of  the  Secret  Council 
of  Ten,  Thaddeus  Loubinsky,  and  Leonardo  Raselli. 

The  meeting  of  that  Council  had  been  so  long  suspended 
that  Rameau  had  ahnost  forgotten  its  existence.  He  gave 
orders  to  admit  the  conspirators.  The  two  men  entered, — the 
Pole,  tall,  stalwart,  and  with  martial  stride — the  Italian,  small, 
emaciated,  with  skulking,  noiseless,  cat  like  step, — both  looking 
wondrous  threadbare,  and  in  that  state  called  "  shabby  genteel," 
which  belongs  to  the  man  who  cannot  work  for  his  livelihood 
and  assumes  a  superiority  over  the  man  who  can.  Their  out- 
ward appearance  was  in  notable  discord  with  that  of  the  poet- 
politician — he  all  new  in  the  latest  fashions  of  Parisian  elegance, 
and  redolent  of  Parisian  prosperity  and  extrait  tie  Moiisseline ! 

"  Confrere^^''  said  rhe  Pole,  seating  himself  on  the  edge  of 
the  table,  while  the  Italian  leaned  against  the  mantelpiece  and 
glanced  round  the  room  with  furtive  eye,  as  if  to  detect  its  in- 
nermost secrets  or  to  decide  where  safest  to  drop  a  lucifer- 
match  for  its  conflagration, — "  confrere"  said  the  Pole,  "  your 
country  needs  you " 

"  Rather,  the  cause  of  all  countries,"  interposed  the  Italian, 
softly, — "  Humanity." 

"  Please  to  explain  yourselves.  But  stay,  wait  a  moment," 
said  Rameau ;  and,  rising,  he  went  to  the  door,  opened  it, 
looked  forth,  ascertained  that  the  coast  was  clear,  then  reclosed 
the  door  as  cautiously  as  a  prudent  man  closes  his  pocket  when- 
ever shabby-genteel  visitors  appeal  to  him  in  the  cause  of  his 
country,  still  more  if  they  appeal  in  that  of  Humanity. 

"  Confrere,''  said  the  Pole,  "  this  day  a  movement  is  to  be 
made — a  demonstration  on  behalf  of  your  country " 

"  Of  Humanity,"  again  softly  interposed  the  Italian. 

"  Attend  and  share  it,"  said  the  Pole. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Rameau ;  "  I  do  not  know  what  you 
mean.  I  am  now  the  Editor  of  a  journal  in  which  the  pro- 
prietor does  not  countenance  violence  ;  and  if  you  come  to 
me  as  a  member  of  the  Council,  you  must  be  aware  that  I 
should  obey  no  orders  but  those  of  its  president,  whom  I 
have  not  seen  for  nearly  a  year ;  indeed,  I  know  not  if  the 
Council  still  exists." 

"  The  Council  exists,  and  with  it  the  obligations  it  im 
poses,"  replied  Thaddeus. 

"  Pampered  with  luxury,"  here  the  Pole  raised  his  voice, 
"  do  you  dare  to  reject  the  voice  of  Poverty  and  Freedom  ?  " 

"  Hush,  dear  but  too  vehement  confere"  murmured  the 
bland  Italian  ,  "  permit  me  to  dispel  the  reasonable  doubts  of 


THE  PARISIANS, 


351 


OUT  confrere."  And  he  took  out  of  his  breast-pocket  a  paper 
which  he  presented  to  Rameau  ;  on  it  were  written  these 
words  : — 

"  This  evening,  May  14th.  Demonstration. — Faubourg  du 
Temple. — Watch  events,  under  orders  of  A.  M.  Bid  the 
youngest  member  take  that  first  opportunity  to  test  nerves  and 
discretion.     He  is  not  to  act,  but  to  observe." 

No  name  was  appended  to  this  instruction,  but  a  cipher 
inteUigible  to  all  members  of  the  Council  as  significant  of  its 
president,  Jean  Lebeau. 

"  If  I  err  not,"  said  the  Italian,  "  Citizen  Rameau  is  our 
youngest  confrere." 

Rameau  paused.  The  penalties  for  disobedience  to  an 
order  of  the  president  of  the  Council  were  too  formindable  to 
be  disregarded.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that,  though  his 
name  was  not  mentioned,  he,  Rameau,  was  accurately  desig- 
nated as  the  youngest  member  of  the  Council.  Still,  however 
he  might  have  owed  his  present  position  to  the  recommenda- 
tion of  Lebeau,  there  was  nothing  in  the  conversation  of  M.  de 
Mauleon  which  would  warrant  participation  in  a  popular 
emeute  by  the  editor  of  a  journal  belonging  to  that  mocker  of 
the  mob.  Ah !  but — and  here  again  he  glanced  over  the 
paper — he  was  asked  "  not  to  act,  but  to  observe."  To  observe 
was  the  duty  of  a  journalist.  He  might  go  to  the  demonstra- 
tion, as  De  Mauldon  confessed  he  had  gone  to  the  Communist 
Club,  a  philosophical  spectator. 

"  You  do  not  disobey  this  order  ?  "  said  the  Pole,  crossing 
his  arms. 

"  I  shall  certainly  go  into  the  Faubourg  du  Temple  this 
evening,"  answered  Rameau,  dryly  ;  "  I  have  business  that 
way." 

"^^'///"said  the  Pole;  "I  did  not  think  you  would  fau 
us,  though  you  do  edit  a  journal  which  says  not  a  word  on  the 
duties  that  bind  the  French  people  to  the  resuscitation  of 
Poland." 

"  And  is  not  pronounced  in  decided  accent  upon  the  cause 
of  the  human  race,"  put  in  the  Italian,  whispering. 

"  I  do  not  write  the  political  articles  in  '  Le  Sense  Commun,^  " 
answered  Rameau ;  "  and  I  suppose  that  our  president  is  satis- 
fied with  them,  since  he  recommended  me  to  the  preference  of 
the  person  who  does.  Have  you  more  to  say  1  Pardon  me ; 
my  time  is  precious,  for  it  does  not  belong  to  me." 

"  Enough  !  "  said  the   Italian :  "  we  will   detain   you    no 


352 


THE  PARISIAK^i. 


longer,"  Piere,  with    bow  and    smile,  he  glided  towards  the 
door. 

"  Confrere^''  muttered  the  Pole,  lingering,  "  you  must  have 
become  very  rich  ! — do  not  forget  the  wrongs  of  Poland — I  am 
their  representative — I — speaking  in  that  character,  not  as 
myself  individually — /have  not  breakfasted  !  " 

Rameau,  too  thoroughly  Parisian  not  to  be  as  lavish  of  his 
own  money  as  he  was  envious  of  another's,  slipped  some  pieces 
of  gold  into  the  Pole's  hand.  The  Pole's  bosom  heaved  with 
manly  emotion  :  "  These  pieces  bear  the  effigies  of  the  tyrant 
— I  accept  them  as  redeemed  from  disgrace  by  their  uses  to 
Freedom." 

"  Share  them  with  Signer  Raselli  in  the  name  of  the  same 
cause,"  whispered  Rameau,  with  a  smile  he  might  have  plagiar- 
ized from  De  Mauleon. 

The  Italian,  whose  ear  was  inured  to  whispers,  heard  and 
turned  round  as  he  stood  at  the  threshold. 

"  No,  confrere  of  France — no,  confrere  of  Poland — I  am  Ital- 
ian. All  ways  to  take  the  life  of  an  enemy  are  honorable — 
no  way  is  honorable  which  begs  money  from  a  friend." 

An  hour  or  so  later,  Rameau  was  driven  in  his  comfortable 
coupe  to  the  Faubourg  du  Temple. 

Suddenly,  at  the  angle  of  a  street  his  coachman  was  stopped 
— a  rough-looking  man  appeared  at  the  door — "  Descende,  man 
petti  bourgeois."  Behind  the  rough-looking  man  were  menacing 
faces. 

Rameau  was  not  physically  a  coward — very  few  Frenchmen 
are,  still  fewer  Parisians ;  and  still  fewer,  no  matter  what  their 
birthplace,  the  men  whom  we  call  vain — the  men  who  overmuch 
covet  distinction  and  overmuch  dread  reproach. 

"  Why  should  I  descend  at  your  summons  ?  "  said  Rameau, 
haughtily.     "  Bah  !  Coachman,  drive  on  !  " 

The  rough-looking  man  opened  the  door,  and  silently  ex- 
tended a  hand  to  Rameau,  saying  gently,  "  Take  my  advice, 
mon  bourgeois.  Get  out — we  want  your  carriage.  It  is  a  day 
of  barricades — every  little  helps,  even  your  coupe  1" 

While  this  man  spoke,  others  gesticulated ;  some  shrieked 
out,  "  He  is  an  employer !  he  thinks  he  can  drive  over  the  em- 
ployed !  "  Some  leader  of  the  crowd — a  Parisian  crowd  always 
has  a  classical  leader,  who  has  never  read  the  classics — thun- 
dered forth,  "  Tarquin's  car!  "  "  Down  with  Tarquin."  There- 
with came  a  yell,  "  A  la  lanterne — Tarquin!'' 

We  Anglo-Saxons,  of  the  old  country  or  the  new,  are  not 
familiarized  to  the  dread  roar  of  a  populace  delighted  to  have 


THE  PARISIANS.  353 

a  Roman  authority  for  tearing  us  to  pieces ;  still,  Americans 
know  what  is  lynch  law.     Rameau  was  in  danger  of  lynch  law, 
— when  suddenly  a  face  not  unknown  to  him  interposed  be 
ween  himself  and  the  rough-looking  man. 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  this  new-comer,  "  my  young  confrere.  Gustave 
Rameau,  welcome  !  Citizens,  make  way  ;  I  answer  for  this 
patriot — I,  Afmand  Monnier.  He  comes  to  help  us.  Is  this 
the  way  you  receive  him  .'' "  Then  in  a  low  voice  to  Rameau, 
*  Come  out.  Give  your  coupe  to  the  barricade.  What  matters 
such  rubbish  ?  Trust  to  me — I  expected  you.  Hist ! — Lebeau 
bids  me  see  that  you  are  safe." 

Rameau  then,  seeking  to  drape  himself  in  majesty, — as  the 
aristocrats  of  journalism  in  a  city  wherein  no  other  aristocr-acy 
is  recognized  naturally  and  commendably  do,  when  ignorance 
combined  with  physical  strength  asserts  itself  to  be  a  power, 
beside  which  the  power  of  knowledge  is  what  a  learned  poodle 
is  to  a  tiger  —Rameau  then  descended  from  his  coupe,  and  said 
to  this  Titan  of  labor,  as  a  French  marquis  might  have  said  to 
his  valet,  and  as,  when  the  French  marquis  has  become  a  ghost 
of  the  past,  the  man  who  keeps  a  coupe  says  to  the  man  who 
mends  its  wheels,  "  Honest  fellow,  I  trust  yon." 

Monnier  led  the  journalist  through  the  mob  to  the  rear  of 
the  barricade  hastily  constructed.  Here  were  assembled  very 
motley  groups. 

The  majority  were  ragged  boys,  the  gmnins  of  Paris,  com- 
mingled with  several  women  of  no  reputable  appearance,  some 
dingily,  some  gaudily  apparelled.  The  crowd  did  not  appear  as 
if  the  business  in  hand  was  a  very  serious  one.  Amidst  the 
din  of  voices  the  sound  of  laughter  rose  predominant ;  jests  and 
bons  mots  flew  from  lip  to  lip.  The  astonishing  good-humor  of 
the  Parisians  was  not  yet  excited  into  the  ferocity  that  grows 
out  of  it  by  a  street-contest.  It  was  less  like  a  popular  enieute 
than  a  gathering  of  schoolboys  bent  not  less  on  fun  than  on 
mischief.  But  still,  amid  this  gayer  crowd  were  sinister,  lower- 
ing faces  ;  the  fiercest  were  not  those  of  the  very  poor,  but 
father  of  artisans,  who,  to  judge  by  their  dress,  seemed  well  off 
— of  men  belonging  to  yet  higher  grades.  Rameau  distin- 
guished among  these  the  medecin  des  pauvres,  the  philosophical 
atheist,  sundry  young  long-haired  artists,  middle-aged  writers 
for  the  republican  press,  in  close  neighborhood  with  ruffians 
of  villanous  aspect  who  might  have  been  newly  returned  from 
the  galleys.  None  were  regularly  armed  ;  still  revolvers  and 
muskets  and  long  knives  were  by  no  means  unfrequently  inter- 
spersed among  the  rioters.     The  whole  scene  was  to  Rameau 


354 


THE  PARISIANS. 


a  confused  panorama,  and  the  dissonant  tumult  of  yells  and 
laughter,  of  menace  and  joke,  began  rapidly  to  act  on  his 
impressionable  nerves.  He  felt  that  which  is  the  prevalent- 
character  of  a  Parison  riot — the  intoxication  of  an  impulsive 
sympathy ;  coming  there  as  a  reluctant  spectator,  if  action 
commenced  he  would  have  been  borne  readily  into  the  thick  of 
the  action — he  could  not  have  helped  it ;  already  he  grew  im- 
patient of  the  suspense  of  strife.  Monnier,  having  deposited 
him  safely  wdth  his  back  to  a  wall,  at  the  corner  of  a  street 
handy  for  flight,  if  flight  became  expedient,  had  left  him  for 
several  minutes,  having  business  elsewhere.  Suddenly  the 
whisper  of  the  Italian  stole  into  his  ear — "  These  men  are  fools. 
This  is  not  the  way  to  do  business;  this  does  not  hurt  the 
Robber  of  Nice — Garibaldi's  Nice  :  they  should  have  left  it  to 


me." 


"  What  would  you  do  ? " 

"  I  have  invented  a  new  machine,"  whispered  the  Friend 
of  Humanity ;  "  it  would  remove  all  at  one  blow — lion  and 
lioness,  whelp  and  jackals — and  then  the  Revolution  if  you 
will !  not  this  paltry  tumult.  The  cause  of  the  human  race  is 
being  frittered  away.  I  am  disgusted  with  Lebeau.  Thrones 
are  not  overturned  by  gamins. 

Before  Rameau  could  answer,  Monnier  rejoined  him.  The 
artisan's  face  was  overcast — his  lips  compressed,  yet  quivering 
with  indignation.  "Brother,"  he  said  "to  Rameau,  "to-day 
the  cause  is  betrayed  "  (the  word  trahi  was  just  then  coming 
into  vogue  at  Paris)-—"  the  blouses  I  counted  on  are  recreant.  I 
have  just  learned  that  all  is  quiet  in  the  other  qjiariiers  where 
the  rising  was  to  have  been  simultaneous  with  this.  We  are  in 
a  piet-apens — the  soldiers  will  be  down  on  us  in  a  few  minutes  ; 
hark  1  don't  you  hear  the  distant  tramp  >  Nothing  for  us  but 
to  die  like  men.  Our  blood  will  be  avenged  later.  Here,"  and 
he  thrust  a  revolver  into  Rameau's  hand.  Then,  with  a  lusty 
voice  that  rang  through  the  crowd,  he  shouted,  "  Vive  le peuple  !'' 
The  rioters  caught  and  re-echoed  the  cry,  mingled  wuth  other 
cries,  "  Vive  la  Kepublique  !  "     "    Vive  le  drapeau  rouge  I " 

The  shouts  were  yet  at  their  full,  when  a  strong  hand 
grasped  Monnier's  arm,  and  a  clear,  deep,  but  low  voice  thrilled 
through  his  ear—"  Obey ! — I  warned  you.  No  fight  to-day. 
Time  not  ripe.  All  that  is  needed  is  done— do  not  undo  it 
Hist !  the  serpens  de  ville  are  force  enough  to  disperse  the  swarm 
of  those  gnats.  Behind  the  sergens  come  soldiers  who  will  not 
fraternize.  Lose  not  one  life  to-day.  The  morrow  when  we 
shall   need   every   man — nay,  every  gamin — will   dawn    soon, 


TTFE  FARISTANb.  355 

Answer  not.  Obey ! "  The  same  strong  hand,  quitting  its 
hold  on  Monnier,  then  seized  Rameau  by  the  wrist,  and  the 
same  deep  voice  said,  "  Come  with  me."  Rameau,  turning  in 
amaze  not  unmixed  with  anger,  saw  beside  him  a  tall  man  with 
sombrero  hat  pressed  close  over  his  head,  and  in  the  blouse  of 
a  laborer,  but  through  such  disguise  he  recognized  the  pale 
gray  whiskers  and  green  spectacles  of  Lebeau.  He  yielded 
passively  to  the  grasp  that  led  him  away  down  the  deserted 
street  at  the  angle. 

I  At  the  farther  end  of  that  street,  however,  was  heard  the 
steady  thud  of  hoofs. 

"  The  soldiers  are  taking  the  mob  at  its  rear,"  said  Lebeau, 
calmly  ;  "  we  have  not  a  moment  to  lose — this  way."  And  he 
plunged  into  a  dismal  court,  then  into  a  labyrinth  of  lanes,  fol- 
lowed mechanically  by  Rameau.  They  issued  at  last  on  the 
Boulevards,  in  which  the  usual  loungers  were  quietly  saunter- 
ing, wholly  unconscious  of  the  riot  elsewhere.  "  Now  take 
t\i?it_/iacre  and  go  home  ;  write  down  your  impressions  of  what 
you  have  seen,  and  take  your  MS.  to  M.  de  Mauldon."  Le- 
beau here  quitted  him. 

Meanwhile,  all  happened  as  Lebeau  had  predicted.  The 
sergens  de  ville  showed  themselves  in  front  of  the  barricades  ;  a 
small  troop  of  mounted  soldiers  appeared  in  the  rear.  The 
mob  greeted  the  first  with  yells  and  a  shower  of  stones;  at  the 
sight  of  the  last  they  fled  in  all  directions  ;  and  the  sergens  de 
vtlle,  calmly  scaling  the  barricades,  carried  off  in  triumph,  as 
prisoners  of  war,  ionr  ga?nins,  three  women,  and  one  Irishman 
loudly  protesting  innocence  and  shrieking  "  Murther  !  "  So 
ended  the  first  inglorious  rise  against  Xho.  plebiscite  and  the  Em- 
pire, on  the  14th  of  May,  1870. 

From  Isaura  Cicogna  to  Madame  de  Grantmesnil. 

"  Saturday,  May  21,  187a 

"  I  am  Still,  dearest  Eulalie,  under  the  excitement  of  Lti- 
pressions  wholly  new  to  me.  I  have  to-day  witnessed  one  of 
those  scenes^vhich  take  us  out  of  our  private  life,  not  into  the 
world  of  fiction,  but  of  history,  in  which  we  live  as  in  the  life 
of  a  nation.  You  know  how  intimate  I  have  become  with 
Vale'rie  Duplessis.  She  is  in  herself  so  charming  in  her  com- 
bination of  petulant  wilfulness  and  guileless  iiaivete  that  she 
might  sit  as  a  model  for  one  of  your  exquisite  heroines.  Hei 
father,  who  is  in  great  favor  at  court,  had  tickets  for  the  Salle 
dcs  Eiats  of  the  Louvre  to  r'-     -  •  'icii,  as  the   journals  will   LcJ! 


356 


THE  PARISIANS. 


you,  ihe  results  of  the  plebiscite  were  formally  announced  to  the 
Emperor — and  I  accompanied  him  and  Valerie.  I  felt,  on  en- 
tering the  hall,  as  if  I  had  been  living  for  months  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  false  rumors,  for  those  I  chiefly  meet  in  the  circles  of 
artists  and  men  of  letters,  and  the  wits  Tiwdi  flaneurs  who  haunt 
such  circles,  are  nearly  all  hostile  to  the  Emperor.  They 
agree,  at  least,  in  asserting  the  decline  of  his  popularity — the 
failure  of  his  intellectual  powers ;  in  predicting  his  downfall — 
deriding  the  notion  of  a  successor  in  his  son.  Well,  I  know 
not  how  to  reconcile  these  statements  with  the  spectacle  I  have 
beheld  to-day. 

"  In  the  chorus  of  acclamation  amidst  which  the  Emperor 
entered  the  hall,  it  seemed  as  if  one  heard  the  voice  of  the 
France  he  had  just  appealed  to.  If  the  Fates  are  really  weav- 
ing woe  and  shame  in  his  woof,  it  is  in  hues  which,  to  mortal 
eyes,  seem  brilliant  with  glory  and  joy. 

"  You  will  read  the  address  of  the  President  of  the  Coi  ps 
Legislatif ;  I  wonder  how  it  will  strike  you.  I  own  fairly  that 
me  it  wholly  carried  away.  At  each  sentiment  I  murmured  to 
myself,  '  Is  not  this  true  ?  and,  if  true,  are  France  and  human 
nature  ungrateful  1 ' 

"  '  It  is  now,'  said  the  President,  '  eighteen  years  since 
France,  wearied  with  confusion,  and  anxious  for  security,  con- 
fiding in  your  genius  and  the  Napoleonic  dynasty,  placed  in 
your  hands,  together  with  the  Imperial  Crown,  the  authority 
which  the  public  necessity  demanded.'  Then  the  address  pro- 
ceeded to  enumerate  the  blessings  that  ensued — social  order 
speedily  restored — the  welfare  of  all  classes  of  society  pro- 
moted— advances  in  commerce  and  manufactures  to  an  extent 
hitherto  unknown.  Is  not  this  true  1  and,  if  so,  are  you,  noble 
daughter  of  France,  ungrateful  .-• 

"  Then  came  words  which  touched  me  deeply — me,  who, 
knowing  nothing  of  politics,  still  feel  the  link  that  unites  Art  to 
Freedom  :  '  But  from  the  first  your  Majesty  has  looked  forward 
to  the  time  when  this  concentration  of  power  would  no  longer 
correspond  to  the  aspirations  of  a  tranquil  and  reassured  coun- 
try, and,  foreseeing  the  progress  of  modern  society,  you  pro 
claimed  that  "  Liberty  must  be  the  crowning  of  tl*  edifice.'  ' 
Passing  then  over  the  previous  gradual  advances  in  popular 
government,  the  President  came  to  the  '  present  self-abnegation, 
unprecedented  in  history,'  and  to  the  vindication  of  that  plebis- 
cite which  I  ha\e  heard  S3  assailed,  viz.,- — fidelity  to  the  great 
principle  upon  which  the  throne  was  founded  required  that  so 
important  a  modification   of  a  power  bestowed  by  the  people 


7'HE  PAR  IS  TANS. 


357 


should  not  be  made  without  the  participation  of  the  people 
themselves.  Then,  enumerating  the  millions  who  had  wel- 
comed the  new  form  of  government — the  President  paused  a 
second  or  two,  as  if  with  suppresed  emotion — and  every  one 
present  held  his  breath,  till,  in  a  deeper  voice,  through  which 
there  ran  a  quiver  that  thrilled  through  the  hall,  he  concluded 
with — '  France  is  with  you  :  France  places  the  cause  of  liberty 
imder  the  protection  of  your  dynasty  and  the  great  bodies  of 
the  State.'  Is  France  with  him  1  I  know  not ;  but  if  the  mal- 
contents of  France  had  been  in  the  hall  at  that  moment,  I  be- 
lieve they  would  have  felt  the  power  of  that  wonderful  sympa- 
thy which  compels  all  the  hearts  in  great  audiences  to  beat  in 
accord,  and  would  have  answered,  '  It  is  true.' 

"  All  eyes  now  fixed  on  the  Emperor,  and  I  noticed  few 
eyes  which  were  not  moist  with  tears  You  know  that  calm 
unrevealing  face  of  his — a  face  which  sometimes  disappoints 
expectation.  But  there  is  that  in  it  which  I  have  seen  in  no 
other,  but  which  I  can  imagine  to  have  been  common  to  the 
Romans  of  old,  the  dignity  which  arises  from  self-control — an 
expression  which  seems  removed  from  the  elation  of  joy,  the 
depression  of  sorrow — not  unbecoming  to  one  who  has  known 
great  vicissitudes  of  Fortune  and  is  prepared  alike  for  her 
frowns  or  her  smiles. 

"I  had  looked  at  that  face  while  M.  Schneider  was  reading 
the  address — it  moved  not  a  muscle,  it  might  have  been  a  face 
of  marble  ;  even  when  at  moments  the  words  were  drowned  in 
applause,  and  the  Empress,  striving  at  equal  composure,  still 
allowed  us  to  see  a  movement  of  her  eyelids,  a  tremble  on  her 
lips.  The  boy  at  his  right,  heir  to  his  dynasty,  had  his  looks 
fixed  on  the  President,  as  if  eagerly  swallowing  each  word  in 
the  address,  save  once  or  twice,  when  he  looked  round  the  hall 
curiously  and  with  a  smile,  as  a  mere  child  might  look.  He 
struck  me  as  a  mere  child.  Next  to  the  Prince  was  one  of 
those  countenances  which  once  seen  are  never  to  be  forgotten 
— the  true  Napoleonic  type,  brooding,  thoughtful,  ominous, 
beautiful.  But  not  with  the  serene  energy  that  characterizes 
the  head  of  the  First  Napoleon  when  Emperor,  and  wholly 
without  the  restless  eagerness  for  action  which  is  stamped  in 
the  lean  outline  of  Napoleon  when  First  Consul ; — no, — in 
Prince  Napoleon  there  is  the  beauty  to  which,  as  woman,  I 
could  never  give  my  heart — were  I  man,  the  intellect  that  would 
not  command  my  trust.  But,  nevertheless,  in  beauty  it  is  sig- 
nal, and  in  that  beauty  the  expression  of  intellect  is  predomi- 
nant. 


,-8  "^^^^  PARISIANS. 

"  Oh,  dear  Eulalie,  how  I  am  digressing  !  The  Eniperoi 
spoke — and  believe  me,  Eulalie,  whatever  the  journals  or  your 
compatriots  may  insinuate,  there  is  in  that  man  no  sign  of  de- 
clining intellect  or  failing  health.  I  care  not  what  may  be  his 
years,  but  that  man  is  in  mind  and  in  health  as  young  as  Caesar 
when  he  crossed  the  Rubicon. 

"  The  old  cling  to  the  past — they  do  not  go  forward  to  the 
future.  There  was  no  going  back  in  that  speech  of  the  Emper- 
or. There  was  something  grand  and  something  young  in  the 
modesty  with  which  he  put  aside  all  reference  to  that  which  his 
Empire  had  done  in  the  past,  and  said,  with  a  simple  earnest- 
ness of  manner  which  I  cannot  adequately  describe — 

"  'We  must  more  than  ever  look  fearlessly  forward  to  the 
future.  Who  can  be  opposed  to  the  progressive  march  of  a 
regime  founded  by  a  great  people  in  the  midst  of  political  dis- 
turbance, and  which  now  is  fortified  by  liberty .-" 

"  As  he  closed,  the  walls  of  that  vast  hall  seemed  to  rock 
with  an  applause  that  must  have  been  heard  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Seine. 

"  '  Vive  r  Empereurf 

*' '  Vi7'e  r  Emperatrice .-' 

"'  Vive  le  Ptince  Imperial !' — and  the  last  cxy  was  yet  more 
prolonged  than  the  others,  as  if  to  affirm  the  dynasty. 

"  Certainly  I  can  imagine  no  Court  in  the  old  days  of  chiv- 
alry more  splendid  than  the  audience  in  that  grand  hall  of 
the  Louvre.  To  the  right  of  the  throne  all  the  ambassadors  of 
the  civilized  world  in  the  blaze  of  their  rich  costumes  and  mani- 
fold orders.  In  the  gallery  at  the  left,  yet  more  behind,  the 
dresses  and  jewels  of  the  dames  if  honneur  and  of  the  great 
officers  of  State.  And  when  the  Empress  rose  to  depart,  cer- 
tainly my  fancy  cannot  picture  a  more  queenly  image,  or  one 
that  seemed  more  in  unison  with  the  representation  of  royal 
pomp  and  power.  The  very  dress,  of  a  color  which  would  have 
been  fatal  to  the  beauty  of  most  women  equally  fair — a  deep 
golden  color  (Valerie  profanely  called  it  buff) — seemed  so  to 
suit  the  splendor  of  the  ceremony  and  the  day  ;  it  seemed  as  if 
that  stately  form  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  sunlight  reflected  from 
itself.  Day  seemed  darkened  when  that  sunlight  passed 
away. 

"  I  fear  you  will  think  I  have  suddenly  grown  servile  to  the 
gauds  and  shows  of  mere  royalty.  I  ask  myself  if  that  be  so. 
I  think  not.  Surely  it  is  a  higher  sense  of  greatness  which  ha? 
been  impressed  on  me  by  the  pageant  of  to-d;ty :   I  feel  as  if 


THE  PARISIANS. 


359 


there  were  brought  vividly  before  me  the  majesty  of  France, 
through  the  representation  of  the  ruler  she  has  crowned. 

"  I  feel  also  as  if  there,  in  that  hall,  I  found  a  refuge  from 
all  the  warring  contests  in  which  no  two  seem  :o  mc  in  agree- 
ment as  to-^^iie  sort  of  government  to  be  established  in  place  of 
the  presenil''^  The  '  Liberty  '  clamored  for  by  one  would  cut  the 
throat  of  '  the  Liberty  '  worshipped  by  another. 

"  I  see  a  thousand  phantom  forms  of  Liberty — but  only  one 
living  symbol  of  Order — that  which  spoke  from  a  throne  to- 
day." 

*  *  *  *  **  «  * 

Isaura  left  her  letter  uncompleted.  On  the  following  Mon- 
day she  was  present  at  a  crowded  soiree  given  by  M.  Louvier. 
Among  the  guests  were  some  of  the  most  eminent  leaders  of 
the  opposition,  including  that  vivacious  master  of  sharp  sayings 

M.  P ,  whom  Savarin  entitled  "  the   French  Sheridan  ;"   if 

laws  could  be  found  in  epigrams  he  would  be  also  the  French 
Solon. 

There,  too,  was  Victor  de  MauMon,  regarded  by  the  Re- 
publican party  with  equal  admiration  and  distrust.  For  the 
distrust,  he  himself  pleasantly  accounted  in  talk  with  Savarin  : 

"  How  can  I  expect  to  be  trusted  }  I  represent  '  Common 
Sense ;'  every  Parisian  likes  Common  Sense  in  print,  and  cries 
*  ^e  suis  tra/ii'  when  Common  Sense  is  to  be  put  into  action." 

A  group  of  admiring  listeners  had  collected  round  one 
(perhaps  the  most  brilliant)  of  these  oratorical  lawyers,  by  whom, 
in  France,  the  respect  for  all  law  has  been  so  often  talked  away  : 
he  was  speaking  of  the  Saturday's  ceremonial  with  eloquent  in- 
dignation. It  was  a  mockery  to  France  to  talk  of  her  placing 
Liberty  under  the  protection  of  the  Empire. 

There  was  a  flagrant  token  of  the  military  force  under  which 
civil  freedom  was  held  in  the  very  dress  of  the  Emperor  and 
his  insignificant  son  :  the  first  in  the  uniform  of  General  of 
Division  ;  the  second,  forsooth,  in  that  of  a  sous-lieutenant. 
Then  other  Liberal  chiefs  chimed  in :  "  The  army,"  said  one, 
"  was  an  absurd  expense  ;  it  must  be  put  down :"  "  The 
world  was  grown  too  civilized  for  war,"  said  another.  "The  Em- 
press was  priest-ridden,"  said  a  third  :  "  Churches  might  be  tol- 
erated ;  Voltaire  built  a  church,  but  a  church  simply  to  the 
God  of  Nature,  not  of  priestcraft," — and  so  on. 

Isaura,  whom  any  sneer  at  religion  pained  and  revolted, 
here  turned  away  from  the  orators  to  whom  she  had  before 
been  listening  with  earnest  attention,  and  her  eyes  fell  on  the 
countenance  of  de  MauMon,  who  was  seated  opposite.     The 


360  THE  PARISIANS. 

countenance  startled  her,  its  expression  was  so  angnly  scorn- 
ful ;  that  expression,  however,  vanished  at  once  as  de  Mauldon's 
eye  met  her  own,  and,  drawing  his  chair  near  to  her,  he  said, 
smihng,  "  Your  look  tells  me  that  I  almost  frightened  you  by 
the  ill-bred  frankness  with  which  my  face  must  have  betrayed 
my  anger  at  hearing  such  imbecile  twaddle  from' men Avho  aspire 
to  govern  our  turbulent  France.  You  remember,  that  after 
Lisbon  was  destroyed  by  an  earthquake  a  quack  advertised 
'  pills  against  earthquakes.'  These  messieurs  are  not  so  cun- 
ning as  the  quack;  he  did  not  name  the  ingredients  of  his 
pills." 

"  But,  M.  de  Maul^on,"  said  Isaura,  "  if  you,  being  opposed 
to  the  Empire,  think  so  ill  of  the  wisdom  of  those  who  would 
destroy  it,  are  you  prepared  with  remedies  for  earthquakes 
more  efficacious  than  their  pills  ?" 

"  I  reply  as  a  famous  English  statesman,  when  in  opposi- 
tion, replied  to  a  somewhat  similar  question, — '  I  don't  pre- 
scribe till  I'm  called  in.'  " 

"  To  judge  by  the  seven  millions  and  a  half  whose  votes 
were  announced  on  Saturday,  and  by  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  the  Emperor  was  greeted,  there  is  too  little  fear  of  an 
earthqnake  for  a  good  trade  to  the  pills  of  these  me.ssieurs,  or 
for  fair  play  to  the  remedies  you  will  not  disclose  till  called 
in." 

*'  Ah,  IMadcmoiselle  !  playful  wit  from  lips  not  formed  for 
politics  makes  me  forget  all  about  emperors  and  earthquakes. 
Pardon  that  commonplace  compliment — remember  I  am  a 
Frenchman,  and  cannot  help  being  frivolous," 

"  You  rebuke  my  presumption  too  gently.  True,  I  ought 
not  to  intrude  political  subjects  on  one  like  you — I  understand  so 
little  about  them — but  this  is  my  excuse,  I  so  desire  to  know 


more." 


^  i\I.  de  MauMon  paused,  and  looked  at  her  earnestly  with  a 
kmdly,  half-compassionate  look,  wholly  free  from  the  imperti- 
nence of  gallantry.  "  Young  Poetess,"  he  said,  softly,  "  you 
iare  for  politics  I  Happy,  indeed,  is  he — and,  whether  he 
succeed  or  fail  in  his  ambition  abroad,  proud  should  he  be  of 
an  ambition  crowned  at  home — he  who  has  made  you  desire  to 
know  more  of  politics  !  " 

The  girl  felt  the  blood  surge  to  her  temples.  How  could 
she  have  been  so  self-confessed  .''  She  made  no  reply,  nor  d:i 
M.  dc  Mauleon  seem  to  expect  one  ;  with  that  rare  delicacy 
of  high  breeding  which  appears  in  France  to  belong  to  a  former 


THE  PARISIANS,  361 

generarion,  he  changed  his  tone,  and  went  on  as  if  ihere  had 
been  no  interruption  to  the  question  her  words  implied. 

"  You  think  the  Empire  secure — that  it  is  menaced  by  n  • 
earthquake  ?  You  deceive  yourself.  The  Empero  began  with 
a  fatal  mistake,  but  a  mistake  it  needs  many  years  to  discover. 
]  le  disdained  the  slow  natural  process  of  adjustment  between 
demand  and  supply — employer  and  workmen.  He  desired — no 
ignoble  ambition — to  make  Paris  the  wonder  of  the  world,  the 
eternal  monument  of  his  reign.  In  so  doing,  he  sought  to  create 
artificial  modes  of  content  for  revolutionary  workmen.  Never 
has  any  ruler  such  tender  heed  of  manual  labor  to  the  disparage- 
ment of  intellectual  culture.  Paris  is  embellished  ;  Paris  is  the 
wonder  of  the  world  :  other  great  towns  have  followed  its  ex- 
ample ;  they,  too,  have  their  rows  of  palaces  and  temples. 
Well,  the  time  comes  when  the  magician  can  no  longer  give 
work  to  the  spirits  he  raises ;  then  they  must  fall  on  him  and 
rend :  out  of  the  houses  he  built  for  the  better  habitation  of 
workmen  will  flock  the  malcontents  who  cry,  '  Down  with  the 
Empire!'  On  the  21st  of  May  you  witnessed  the  pompous 
ceremony  which  announces  to  the  Empire  the  vast  majority  of 
votes,  that  will  be  utterly  useless  to  it  except  as  food  for  gun- 
powder in  the  times  that  are  at  hand.  Seven  days  before,  on 
the  14th  of  May,  there  was  a  riot  in  the  Faubourg  da  Temple — 
easily  put  down — you  scarcely  hear  of  it.  That  riot  was  not 
less  necessary  to  those  who  would  warn  the  Empire  that  it  is 
mortal.  True,  the  riot  disperses — but  it  is  unpunished  :  riot  un- 
punished is  a  revolution  begun.  The  earthquake  is  nearer  than 
you  think ;  and  for  that  earthquake  what  are  the  pills  yon 
quacks  advertise .-'  They  prate  of  an  age  too  enlightened  for 
war ;  they  would  mutilate  the  army — nay,  disband  it  if  they 
could — with  Prussia  next  door  to  France.  Prussia,  desiring, 
not  unreasonably,  to  take  that  place  in  the  world  which  France 
now  holds,  will  never  challenge  France  ;  if  she  did,  she  would 
be  too  much  in  the  wrong  to  find  a  second :  Prussia,  knowing 
that  she  has  to  do  with  the  vainest,  the  most  conceited,  the 
rashest  antagonist  that  ever  flourished  a  rapier  in  the  face  of  a 
spadassin — Prussia  will  make  France  challenge  her. 

"  And  how  do  ces  messieurs  deal  with  the  French  army }  Do 
they  dare  say  to  the  ministers,  '  Reform  it' t  Do  they  dare  say, 
'  Prefer  for  men  whose  first  duty  it  is  to  obey,  discipline  to 
equality — insist  on  the  distinction  between  the  officer  and  the 
private,  and  never  confound  it — Prussian  officers  are  well-edu- 
cated gentlemen,  see  that  yours  are'  1  Oh,  no  ;  they  are  demo- 
crats too  stanch  not  to  fraternize  with  an  armed   mob  ;  they 


362  TIFE  PAR/SI  A  ATS. 

content  themselves  with  grudging  an  extra  so}i  to  the  Commis- 
sariat, and  winking  at  the  millions  fraudulently  pocketed  by 
some  '  Liberal  contractor.'  Dieu  des  dieiix !  France  to  be 
beaten,  not  as  at  Waterloo  by  hosts  combined,  but  in  fair  duel 
by  a  single  foe  !  Oh,  the  shame  !  the  shame  !  But  as  the 
French  army  is  now  organized,  beaten  she  ^m^-/ be,  if  she  meets 
the  march  of  the  German." 

"  You  appall  me  with  your  sinister  predictions,"  said  Isaura  ; 
"  but,  happily,  there  is  no  sign  of  war.  M.  Duplessis,  who  is 
in  the  confidence  of  the  Emperor,  told  us  only  the  other  day 
that  Napoleon,  on  learning  the  result  of  the. plebiscite,  said,  '  The 
foreign  journaUsts  who  had  been  insisting  that  the  Empire  can- 
not coexist  with  free  institutions  will  no  longer  hint  that  it  can 
be  safely  assailed  from  without.'  And  more  than  ever  I  may 
say,  Z'  Empire  c'est  la  paix  i  " 

Monsieur  de  Mauldon  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  The  old 
story — Troy  and  the  wooden  horse." 

"  Tell  me,  M.  de  Mauleon,  why  do  you,  who  so  despise  the 
Opposition,  join  with  it  in  opposing  the  Empire  .'' " 

"Mademoiselle,  the  Empire  opposes  me;  while  it  lasts  I 
cannot  be  even  a  Depute  ;  when  it  is  gone.  Heaven  knows  what 
I  may  be, — perhaps  Dictator.  One  thing  you  may  rely  upon 
that  I  would,  if  not  Dictator  myself,  support  any  man  who  was 
better  fitted  for  that  task." 

"  Better  fitted  to  destroy  the  liberty  which  he  pretended  to 
fight  for  I  " 

"  Not  exactly  so,"  replied  M.  de  Mauleon,  imperturbably — 
'better  fitted  to  establish  a  good  government  in  lieu  of  the 
bad  one  he  had  fought  against,  and  the  much  worse  govern- 
ment that  would  seek  to  turn  France  into  a  madhouse  and  make 
the  maddest  of  the  inmates  the  mad  doctor  1 "  He  turned 
away,  and  here  their  conversation  ended. 

But  it  so  impressed  Isaura,  that  the  same  night  she  con 
eluded  her  letter  to  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  by  giving  a  sketch 
of  its  substance,  prefaced  by  an  ingenuous  confession  that  she 
felt  less  sanguine  confidence  in  the  importance  of  the  applauses 
which  had  greeted  the  Emperor  at  the  Saturday's  ceremonial, 
and  ending  thus :  "  I  can  but  confusedly  transcribe  the  words 
of  this  singular  man,  and  can  give  you  no  notion  of  the  manner 
and  the  voice  which  made  them  eloquent.  Tell  me,  can  there 
be  any  truth  in  his  gloomy  predictions?  I  try  not  to  think  so, 
but  they  seem  to  rest  over  that  brilliant  hall  of  the  Louvre  like 
aii  ominous  thunder-cloud." 


THE  PARISIANS.  3^3 


CHAPTER  II. 

4 

The  Marquise  de  Rochebriant  was  seated  in  his  pleasant 
apartment,  glancing  carelessly  at  the  envelopes  of  many  notes 
and  letters  lying  yet  unopened  on  his  breakfast-table.  He  had 
risen  late  at  noon,  for  he  had  not  gone  to  bed  till  dawn.  The 
night  had  been  spent  at  his  club — over  the  card  table — by  no 
means  to  the  pecuniary  advantage  of  the  Marquis,  The 
reader  will  have  learned,  through  the  conversation  recorded  in 
a  former  chapter  between  De  Mauldon  and  Enguerrand  de 
Vandemar,  that  the  austere  Seigneur  Breton  had  become  a  fast 
vtveur  of  Paris.  He  had  long  since  spent  the  remnant  of 
Louvier's  premium  of  ;^iooo,  and  he  owed  a  year's  interest. 
For  this  there  was  an  excuse — M.  Collot,  the  contractor  to 
whom  he  had  been  advised  to  sell  the  yearly  fall  of  his  forest- 
trees,  had  removed  the  trees,  but  had  never  paid  a  sou  beyond 
the  preliminary  deposit ;  so  that  the  revenue,  out  of  which  the 
mortgagee  should  be  paid  his  interest,  was  not  forthcoming. 
Alain  had  instructed  M.  Hdbert  to  press  the  contractor  ;  the 
contractor  had  replied  that  if  not  pressed  he  could  soon  settle 
all  claims — if  pressed,  he  must  declare  himself  banlcrupt.  The 
Chevalier  de  Finisterre  had  laughed  at  the  alarm  which  Alain 
conceived  when  he  first  found  himself  in  the  condition  of  debtor 
for  a  sum  he  could  not  pay,  creditor  for  a  sum  he  could  not  re- 
cover. 

''Bagatelle!''  said  Chevalier.  "Tschu!  CoIIot,  if  you 
give  him  time,  is  as  safe  as  the  Bank  of  France,  and  Louvier 
knows  it.  Louvier  will  not  trouble  you — Louvier,  the  best 
fellow  in  the  world  !     I'll  call  on  him  and  explain  matters." 

It  is  to  be  presumed  that  the  Chevalier  did  so  explain ;  for 
though  both  at  the  first,  and  quite  recently  at  the  second  default 
of  payment,  Alain  received  letters  from  M.  Louvier's  profes- 
sional agent,  as  reminders  of  interest  due,  and  as  requests  for 
its  payment,  the  Chevalier  assured  him  that  these  applications 
were  formalities  of  convention — that  Louvier,  in  fact,  knew 
nothing  about  them  ;  and  when  dining  with  the  great  financier 
himself,  and  cordially  welcomed  and  called  "  Alon  cher,^''  Alain 
had  taken  him  aside  and  commenced  explanation  and  excuse, 
Louvier  had  cut  him  short.     "  ^i?j-/^  /  don't  mention  such  trifle;; 


364  THE  PARISIAIVS. 

There  is   such  a  thing  as  business — that  concerns  my  agent; 
such  a  thing  as  friendship — that  concerns  me.     Alkz  /" 

Thus  M.  de  Rochebriant,  confiding  in  debtor  and  in  creditor, 
had  suffered  twelve  months  to  gHde  by  without  much  heed  of 
either,  and  more  than  hved  up  to  an  income  amply  sufficient 
indeed  for  the  wants  of  an  ordinary  bachelor,  but  needing  more 
careful  thrift  than  could  well  be  expected  from  the  head  of  one 
of  the  most  illustrious  houses  in  France,  cast  so  young  into  the 
vortex  of  the  most  expensive  capital  in  the  world. 

The  poor  Marquis  glided  into  the  grooves  that  slant  down- 
ward, much  as  the  French  Marquis  of  tradition  was  wont  to 
slide  ;  not  that  he  appeared  to  live  extravagantly,  but  he  needed 
all  he  had  for  his  pocket-money,  and  had  lost  that  dread  of  be- 
ing in  debt  which  he  had  brought  up  from  the  purer  atmosphere 
of  Bretagne. 

But  there  were  some  debts  which,  of  course,  a  Rochebriant 
must  pay — debts  of  honor — and  Alain  had,  on  the  previous 
night,  incurred  such  a  debt,  and  must  pay  it  that  day.  He  had 
been  strongly  tempted,  when  the  debt  rose  to  the  figure  it  had 
attained,  to  risk  a  change  of  luck  ;  but,  whatever  his  impru- 
dence, he  was  incapable  of  dishonesty.  If  the  luck  did  not 
change,  and  he  lost  more,  he  would  be  without  means  to  meet 
his  obligations.  As  the  debt  now  stood,  he  calculated  that  he 
could  just  discharge  it  by  the  sale  of  his  coupe  and  horses.  I'' 
is  no  wonder  he  left  his  letters  unopened,  however  charming 
they  might  be  ;  he  was  quite  sure  they  would  contain  no  check 
which  would  enable  him  to  pay  his  debt  and  retain  his  equi- 
page. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  valet  announced  M.  le  Chevalier 
de  Finisterre — a  man  with  smooth  countenance  and  air  dis- 
tingue, a  pleasant  voice  and  perpetual  smile. 

"  Well,  moji  cher,  "  cried  the  Chevalier,  "  I  hope  that  you 
recovered  the  favor  of  Fortune  before  you  quitted  her  green 
table  last  night.     When  I  left  she  seemed  very  cross  with  you.  " 

"  And  so  continued  to  the  end,  "  answered  Alain,  with  well- 
simulated  gayety — much  too  l^on  gentilhomme  to  betray  rage  or 
anguish  for  pecuniary  loss. 

"  After  all,  "  said  De  Finisterre,  lighting  his  cigarette,  "  the 
uncertain  goddess  could  not  do  you  much  harm  ;  the  stakes 
were  Small,  and  your  adversary,  the  Prince,  never  goes  double 
or  quits.  " 

"  Nor  I  either.  'Small,'  however,  is  a  word  of  relative  im- 
port;  the  stakes  might  be  small  10  you,  to  me  large.  Entrt 
nous,  chcr  ami,  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  purse,  and  I  have  only 


THE  PARISIANS.  865 

this  consolation — I  am  cured  of  play  ;  not  that  I  leave  the 
complaint,  the  complaint  leaves  me  ;  it  can  no  more  feed  on 
me  than  a  fever  can  feed  on  a  skeleton.  " 

"  Are  you  serious  ? " 

"  As  serious  as  a  mourner  who  has  just  buried  his  all.  " 

"  His  all  ?     Tut,  with  such  an  estate  as  Rochebriant  ? " 

For  the  first  time  in  that  talk,  Alain's  countenance  became 
overcast. 

"  And  how  long  will  Rochebriant  be  mine  ?  You  know  that 
I  hold  it  at  the  mercy  of  the  mortgagee,  whose  interest  has  not 
been  paid,  and  who  could,  if  he  so  pleased,  issue  notice,  take 
proceedings— " 

^'•Peste!"  interrupted  De  Finisterre ;  "  Louvier  take  pro- 
ceedings !  Louvier,  the  best  fellow  in  the  world  ?  But  don't 
I  see  his  handwriting  on  that  envelope  ?  No  doubt  an  invita- 
tion to  dinner.  " 

Alain  took  up  the  letter  thus  singled  forth  from  a  miscel- 
lany of  epistles,  some  in  female  handwriting,  unsealed  but  in- 
geniously twisted  into  Gordian  knots — some  also  in  female 
handwritings,  carefully  sealed —  others  in  ill-looking  envelopes, 
addressed  in  bold,  legible,  clerk-like  calligraphy.  Taken  alto- 
gether, these  epistles  had  a  character  in  common  :  they  be- 
tokened the  correspondence  of  a  viveur,  regarded  from  the 
female  side  as  young,  handsome,  well-born  ;  on  the  male  side, 
as  a  viveur  who  had  forgotten  to  pay  his  hosier  and  tailor. 

Louvier  wrote  a  small,  not  very  intelligible,  but  very  mascu- 
line, hand,  as  most  men  who  think  cautiously  and  act  promptly 
do  write.     The  letter  ran  thus  :- 

"  Cher  petit  Marquis "  (at  that  commencement  Alain 
haughtily  raised  his  head  and  bit  his  lips), — Cher  petit  Mar- 
quis— It  is  an  age  since  I  have  seen  you.  No  doubt  my  humble 
soirees  are  too  dull  for  a  beau  seigneur  so  courted.  I  forgive 
you.  Would  I  were  a  beau  seigneur  at  your  age  !  Alas  !  I  am 
only  a  commonplace  man  of  business,  growing  old,  too  aloft 
from  the  world  in  which  I  dwell.  You  can  scarcely  but  be 
aware  that  I  have  embarked  a  great  part  of  my  capital  in  build- 
ing speculations.  There  is  a  Rue  de  Louvier  that  runs  its 
drains  right  through  my  purse.  I  am  obliged-  to  call  in  the 
moneys  due  to  me.  My  agent  informs  me  that  I  am  just  7000 
louis  short  of  the  total  I  need — all  other  debts  being  paid  in — 
and  that  there  is  a  trifle  more  than  7000  louis  owed  to  me  as 
interest  on  my  hypotheque  on  Rochebriant :  kindly  pay  into  his 
hands,  before  the  end  of  this  week,  that  sum.     You  have  been 


366  7W^  PAK/SIAA^S. 

too  lenient  to  Collet,  who  must  owe  you  more  than  that.  Send 
agent  to  him.  Desole  to  trouble  you,  and  am  au  desespoir  to 
think  that  my  own  pressing  necessities  compel  me  to  urge  you 
to  take  so  much  trouble.  Mais  que f aire  i  The  Rue  de  Louvier 
stops  the  way,  and  1   must  leave  it  to  my  agent  to  clear  it. 

"  Accept  all  my  excuses,  with  the  assurance  of  my  senti- 
ments the  most  cordial.  Paul  Louvier." 

Alain  tossed  the  letter  to  De  Finisterre.  "  Read  that  from 
the  best  fellow  in  the  world." 

The  Chevalier  laid  down  his  cigarette  and  read.  "  Diable  /" 
he  said,  when  he  returned  the  letter  and  resumed  the  cigarette, 
— "  Diable  1  Louvier  must  be  much  pressed  for  money,  or  he 
would  not  have  written  in  this  strain.  What  does  it  matter  ? 
CoUot  owes  you  more  than  7000  louis.  Let  your  lawyer  get 
them,  and  go  to  sleep  with  both  ears  on  your  pillow." 

"  Ah  !  you  think  Collot  can  pay  if  he  will }  " 

"  Ma/oi/  did  not  M.  Gandrin  tell  you  that  M.  Collot  was 
safe  to  buy  your  wood  at  more  money  than  any  one  else  would 
give  ?  " 

"Certainly,"  said  Alain,  comforted.  "Gandrin  left  that 
impression  on  my  mind.  I  will  set  him  on  the  man.  All 
will  come  right,  I  daresay ;  but  if  it  does  not  come  right,  what 
would  Louvier  do  .'  " 

"Louvier  do!"  answered  Finisterre,  reflectively.  "Well, 
do  you  ask  my  opinion  and  advice  .-* " 

"  Earnestly,  I  ask." 

"  Honestly,  then,  I  answer.  I  am  a  little  on  the  Bourse 
myself — most  Parisians  are.  Louvier  has  made  a  gigantic 
speculation  in  this  new  street,  and  with  so  many  other  irons 
in  tha  fire  he  must  want  all  the  money  he  can  get  at.  I  dare- 
say that  if  you  do  not  pay  him  what  you  owe,  he  must  leave 
it  to  his  agent  to  take  steps  for  announcing  the  sale  of  Roche- 
briant.  But  he  detests  scandal ;  he  hates  the  notion  of  being 
severe  ;  rather  than  that,  in  spite  of  his  difficulties,  he  will  buy 
Rochebriant  of  you  at  a  better  price  than  it  can  command  at 
public  sale.  Sell  it  to  him.  Appeal  to  him  to  act  generously, 
and  you  will  flatter  him.  You  will  get  more  than  the  old 
place  is  worth.  Invest  the  surplus — live  as  you  have  done,  or 
better — and  marry  an  heiress.  Morbleu  !  a  Marquis  de  Roche- 
briant, if  he  were  sixty  years  old,  would  rank  high  in  the  ma- 
trimonial market.  The  more  the  democrats  have  sought  to  im 
poverish  titles  and  laugh  down  historical  names,  the  more  do 
rich  democrat  fathers-in-law  seek  to  decorate  their  daughters 


THE  PARISIANS.  367 

wilh  titles  and  give  their  grandchildren  the  heritage  of  histori- 
cal names.  You  look  shocked, /awz/r^  ami.  Let  us  hope,  then, 
that  CoUot  will  pay.  Set  your  dog — I  mean  your  lawyer — at 
him  ;  seize  him  by  the  throat ! " 

Before  Alain  had  recovered  from  the  stately  silence  whh 
which  he  had  heard  this  very  practical  counsel,  the  valet  again 
appeared,  and  ushered  in  M.  Frederic  Lemercier. 

There  was  no  cordial  acquaintance  between  the  visitors. 
Lemercier  was  chafed  at  finding  himself  supplanted  in  Alain's 
intimate  companionship  by  so  new  a  friend,  and  De  Finis- 
f.erre-  affected  to  regard  Lemercier  as  a  would-be  exquisite  of 
low  birth  and  bad  taste, 

Alain,  too,  was  a  little  discomposed  at  the  sight  of  Lemer- 
cier, rememberinsr  the  wise  cautions  which  that  old  colleo:e 
friend  had  wasted  on  him  at  the  commencement  of  his  Pari- 
sian career,  and  smitten  with  vain  remorse  that  the  cautions 
had  been  so  arrogantly  slighted. 

It  was  with  some  timidity  that  he  extended  his  hand  to 
Frederic,  and  he  was  surprised  as  well  as  moved  by  the  more 
than  usual  warmth  with  which  it  was  grasped  by  the  friend 
he  had  long  neglected.  Such  affectionate  greeting  was  scarcely 
in  keeping  w-ith  the  pride  which  characterized  Frederic  Lemer- 
cier. 

"Alafoif"  said  the  Chevalier,  glancing  towards  the  clock, 
"  how  time  flies  !  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late.  I  must  leave 
you  now,  my  dear  Rochebriant.  Perhaps  we  shall  meet  at 
the  club  later — I  dine  there  to-day.  Au  plaisir^  M.  Le- 
mercier." 


CHAPTER  in. 

When  the  door  had  closed  on  the  Chevalier,  Frederic's 
ck  untenance  became  very  grave.  Drawing  his  chair  near  to 
Alain,  he  said,  "  We  have  not  seen  much  of  each  other 
lately, — na}',  no  excuses  ;  I  am  well  aware  that  it  could 
scarcely  be  otherwise.  Paris  has  grown  so  large  and  so  sub- 
divided into  sets,  that  the  best  friends  belonsrinsr  to  different 
sets  become  as  divided  as  if  the  Atlantic  flowed  between  them. 
I  come  Lo-day  in  consequence  of  something  I  have  just  heard 


368  THE  PARISIANS. 

from  Duplcssis.  Tell  me,  have  you  got  the  money  for  the  wood 
you  sold  to  IVI.  Collot  a  year  ago  ?  " 
"  No,"  said  Alain,  falteringly. 
"  Good  heavens  !  none  of  it  ?  " 

"  Only  the  deposit  of  ten  per  cent.,  which  of  course  I  spent, 
for  it  formed  the  greater  part  of  my  income.  Wliat  of  Collot  ? 
Is  he  really  unsafe  ? " 

"  He  is  ruined,  and  has  fled  the   country.     His  flight  was 
the  talk  of  the  Bourse  this  morning.     Duplessis  told  me  of  it." 
Alain's  face  paled.     "  How  is^Louvier  to  be  paid  ?     Read 
that  letter  ! " 

Lemercier  rapidly  scanned  his  eye  over  the  contents  of 
Louvier's  letter. 

"  It  is  true,  then,  that  you  owe  this  man  a  year's  interest 
— more  than  7000  louis  1  " 

"  Somewhat  more — ^}'es.  But  that  is  not  the  first  care  that 
troubles  me — Rochebriant  may  be  lost,  but  with  it  not  my 
honor.  I  owe  the  Russian  Prince  300  louis,  lost  to  him  last 
night  at  ecarte,  I  must  find  a  purchaser  for  mv  coupe  and 
horses  ;  they  cost  me  600  louis  last  year, — d9  you  know  any 
one  who  will  give  me  three  ?  " 

"  Pooh  !     I  will  give  you  six  ;  your  alezan  alone  is  worth  half 
the  money ! " 

"My  dear  Frederic,  I  will  not  sell  them  to  you  on  any  ac- 
count.    But  you  have  so  many  friends " 

"  Who  would  give  their  soul  to  say,  '  I  bought  these  horses 
of  Rochebriant.'  Of  course  I  have.  Ha !  young  Rameau — 
you  are  acquainted  with  him  ?  " 

"  Rameau  !     I  never  heard  of  him  !  " 

"  Vanity  of  vanities,  then  what  is  fame  !  Rameau  is  the 
editor  of  *  Le  Sens  Commun.'     You  read  that  journal  ?  " 

"  Yes,  k  has  clever  articles,  and  I  remember  how  I  was 
absorbed  in  the  eloquent  roman  which  appeared  in  it." 

"  Ah  !  by  the  Signora  Cicogna,  with  whom  I  think  you 
were  somewhat  smitten  last  year." 

"  Last  year — was  I  ?  How  a  vear  can  alter  a  man  !  But 
my  debt  to  the  Prince.  What  has  '  Le  Sens  Commun  '  to  do 
with  my  horses  ?  " 

'*  I  met  Rameau  at  Savarin's  the  other  evening.  He  was 
making  himself  out  a  hero  and  a  martyr ;  his  coupe  had  been 
taken  from  him  to  assist  in  a  barricade  in  that  senseless  e7neute 
ten  days  ago,  the  coupe  got  smashed,  the  horses  disappeared. 
He  will  buy  one  of  your  horses  and  cou{>e.     Leave  it  to  me. 


THE  PARISIANS.  369 

I  know  where  to  dispose  of  the  other  two  horses.     At  what 
hour  do  you  want  the  money  ?  " 

"  Before  I  go  to  dinner  at  the  ckib." 

"  You  shall  have  it  within  two  hours  ;  but  you  must  not 
dine  at  the  club  to-day.  I  have  a  note  from  Duplessis  to  invite 
you  to  dine  with  him  to-day." 

"  Duplessis  !     I  know  so  little  of  him  !  " 

"  You  should  know  him  better.  He  is  the  only  man  who 
can  give  you  sound  advice  as  to  this  difficulty  with  Louvier, 
and  he  will  give  it  the  more  carefully  and  zealously  because  he 
has  that  enmity  to  Louvier  which  one  rival  financier  has  to 
another.  I  dine  with  him  too.  We  shall  find  an  occasion  to 
consult  him  quietly  ;  he  speaks  of  you  most  kindly.  What  a 
lovely  girl  his  daughter  is  !  " 

"  I  daresay.  Ah  !  I  wish  I  had  been  less  absurdly  fastid- 
ious. I  wish  I  had  entered  the  army  as  a  private  soldier  six 
months  ago  ;  I  should  have  been  a  corporal  by  this  time  ! 
Still  it  is  not  too  late.  When  Rochebriant  is  gone,  I  can  yet 
say  with  the  Mojisquetaire  in  the  melodrame,  '  I  am  rich — I 
have  my  honor  and  my  sword  ! '  " 

"  Nonsense  !  Rochebriant  shall  be  saved ;  meanwhile  I 
hasten  to  Rameau,  An  revoir,  at  the  Hotel  Duplessis — seven 
o'clock." 

Lemercier  went,  and  in  less  than  two  hours  sent  the  Mar- 
quis bank-notes  for  600  louis,  requesting  an  order  for  the  de- 
livery of  the  horses  and  carriage. 

That  order  written  and  signed,  Alain  hastened  to  acquit 
himself  of  his  debt  of  honor,  and,  contemplating  his  probable 
ruin  with  a  lighter  heart,  presented  himself  at  the  Hotel  Du- 
plessis. 

Duplessis  made  no  pretensions  to  vie  with  the  magnificent 
existence  of  Louvier.  His  house,  though  agreeably  situated 
and  flatteringly  styled  the  Hotel  Duplessis,  was  of  moderate 
size,  very  unostentatiously  furnished  ;  nor  was  it  accustomed 
to  receive  the  brilliant  motley  crowds  which  assembled  in  the 
stlons  of  the  elder  financier. 

Before  that  year,  indeed,  Duplessis  had  confined  such  enter- 
tainments as  he  gave  to  quiet  men  of  business,  or  a  few  of  the 
more  devoted  and  loyal  partisans  of  the  Imperial  dynasty; 
but  since  Valeria  came  to  live  with  him  he  had  extended  his 
hospitalities  to  wider  and  lovelier  circles,  including  some  ce- 
lebrities in  the  world  of  art  and  letters  as  well  as  of  fashion. 
Of  the  party  assembled  that  evening  at  dinner  were  Isaura, 
with  the  Signora  Venosta,   one  of  the  Imperial  Ministers,  the 


-yo  ^^-^^  FARISIANS. 

Colonel  whom  Alain  had  already  met  at  Lemercier's  supper. 
Deputes  (ardent  Imperialists),  and  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon  ; 
these,  with  Alain  and  Frederic,  made  up  the  party.  The 
conversation  was  not  particularly  gay.  Duplessis  himself, 
though  an  exceedingly  well-read  and  able  man,  had  not  the 
genial  .accomplishments  of  a  brilliant  host.  Constitutionally 
grave  and  habitually  taciturn — though  there  were  moments  in 
which  he  was  roused  out  of  his  wonted  self  into  eloquence  of 
wit — he  seemed  to-day  absorbed  in  some  engrossing  train  of 
thought.  The  Minister,  the  Deputes,  and  the  Duchesse  de 
Tarascon  talked  politics,  and  ridiculed  the  trumpery  enteute 
of  the  14th;  exulted  in  the  success  of  i]\&  plebiscite ;  and,  ad- 
mitting with  indignation  the  growing  strength  of  Prussia, — 
and  with  scarcely  less  indignation,  but  more  contempt, 
censuring  the  selfish  egotism  of  England  in  disregarding  the 
due  equilibrium  of  the  European  balance  of  power, — hinted 
at  the  necessity  of  annexing  Belgium  as  a  set-off  against  the 
results  of  Sadowa. 

Alain  found  himself  seated  next  to  Isaura — to  the  woman 
who  had  so  captivated  his  eye  and  fancy  on  his  first  arrival  in 
Paris. 

Remembering  his  last  conversation  with  Graham  nearly  a 
year  ago,  he  fe't  some  curiosity  to  ascertain  whether  the  rich 
Englishman  had  proposed  to  her,  and,  if  so,  been  refused  or 
accepted. 

The  first  words  that  passed  between  them  were  trite  enough ; 
but,  after  a  Uttle  pause  in  the  talk,  Alain  said — 

"I  think  Mademoiselle  and  myself  have  an  acquaintance 
in  common — Monsieur  Vane,  a  distinguished  Englishman.  Do 
you  know  if  he  be  in  Paris  at  present  ?  I  have  not  seen  him 
for  many  months." 

"  I  believe  he  is  in  London  ;  at  least  Colonel  Morley  met 
the  other  day  a  friend  of  his  who  said  so." 

Though  Isaura  strove  to  speak  in  a  tone  of  indifference, 
Alain's  ear  detected  a  ring  of  pain  in  her  voice  ;  and,  watch- 
ing her  countenance,  he  was  impressed  with  a  saddened  change 
in  its  expression.  He  was  touched,  and  his  curiosity  was 
mingled  with  a  gentler  interest  as  he  said,  "  When  I  last  saw 
M.  Vane  I  should  have  judged  him  to  be  too  much  under  the 
s])ell  of  an  enchantress  to  remain  long  without  the  pale  of  the 
circle  she  draws  around  her." 

Isuara  turned  her  face  quickly  towards  the  speaker,  and 
her  lips  moved,  but  she  said  nothing  audibly. 

"Can    there    have    been    quarrel   or   misunderstanding?" 


THE  PARISIANS.  ,7, 

thought  Alain  ;  and  after  that  question  his  heart  asked  itself, 
*'  Supposing  Isaura  were  free,  her  affections  disengaged,  could 
he  wish  to  woo  and  to  win  her  ? "  and  his  heart  answered, 
"Eighteen  months  ago  thou  wert  nearer  to  her  than  now. 
ThoLi  wert  removed  from  her  forever  when  thou  didst  accept 
the  world  as  "a  barrier  between  you ;  then,  poor  as  thou  wert, 
thou  wouldst  havfe  preferred  her  to  riches.  Thou  wert  then 
sensible  only  of  the  ingenuous  impulses  of  youth ;  but  the 
moment  thou  saidst,  '  I  am  Rocliebriant,  and,  having  once 
owned  the  claims  of  birth  and  station,  I  cannot  renounce  them 
for  love,'  Isaura  became  but  a  dream.  Now  that  ruin  stares 
thee  in  the  face — now  that  thou  must  grapple  with  the  sternest 
difficulties  of  adverse  fate — thou  hast  lost  the  poetry  of  senti- 
ment which  could  alone  give  to  that  dream  the  colors  and  the 
form  of  human  life."  He  could  not  again  think  of  that  fair 
creature  as  a  prize  that  he  might  even  dare  to  covet.  And  as 
he  met  her  inquiring  eyes,  and  saw  her  quivering  lip,  he  felt  in- 
stinctively that  Graham  was  dear  to  her,  and  that  the  tender 
interest  with  which  she  inspired  himself  was  untroubled  by  one 
l^ang  of  jealousy.     He  resumed  : 

"  Yes,  the  last  time  I  saw  the  Englishman  he  spoke  with 
such  respectful  homage  of  one  lady,  whose  hand  he  would  deem 
it  the  highest  reward  of  ambition  to  secure,  that  I  cannot  but 
feel  deep  compassion  for  him  if  that  ambition  has  been  foiled  ; 
and  thus  only  do  I  account  for  his  absence  from  Paris." 

"  You  are  an  intimate  friend  of  Mr.  Vane's  ?" 

"No,  indeed,  I  have  not  that  honor;  our  acquaintance  is 
but  slight,  but  it  impressed  me  with  the  idea  of  a  man  of  vigor- 
ous intellect,  frank  temper,  and  perfect  honor." 

Isaura's  face  brightened  with  the  joy  we  feel  when  we  hear 
the  praise  of  those  we  love. 

At  this  moment,  Duplessis,  who  had  been  observing  the 
Italian  and  the  young  Marquis,  for  the  first  time  during  dinner 
broke  silence. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  addressing  Isaura  across  the  table, 
"  I  hope  I  have  not  been  correctly  informed  that  your  literary  tri- 
umph has  induced  you  to  forego  the  career  in  which  all  the'best 
judges  concur  that  your  successes  would  be  no  less  brilliant ; 
surely  one  art  does  not  exclude  another." 

Elated  by  Alain's  report  of  Graham's  words,  the  conviction 
.hat  these  words  applied  to  herself,  and  by  the  thought  that  her  re- 
nunciation of  the  stage  removed  a  barrier  between  them  ,  Isaura, 
answered,  with  a  sort  of  enthusiasm — 

"  1  know  not,  M.  Duplessis,  if  one  art  exckides  another  ;   if 


372 


THE  PARISIAXS. 


there  be  desire  to  excel  in  each.  But  I  have  long  lost  all  de- 
sire to  excel  in  the  art  you  refer  to,  and  resigned  all  idea  of  the 
career  in  which  it  opens." 

"  So  M.  Vane  told  me,"  said  Alain,  in  a  whisper. 

"  When  ? " 

"  Last  year, — on  the  day  that  he  spoke  in  terms  of  admi 
ration  so  merited  of  the  lady  whom  M.  Duple'ssis  has  just  had 
the  honor  to  address." 

All  this  while,  Valerie  who  was  seated  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  table  beside  the  Minister,  who  had  taken  her  in  to  dinner,  had 
been  watching,  with  eyes  the  anxious  tearful  sorrow  of  which 
none  but  her  father  had  noticed,  the  low-voiced  confidence  be- 
tween Alain  and  the  friend  whom  till  that  day  she  had  so  enthusi- 
astically loved.  Hitherto  she  had  been  answering  in  monosyl- 
ables  all  attempts  of  the  great  man  to  draw  her  into  conversation ; 
but  now,  observing  how  Isaura  blushed  and  looked  down,  that 
strange  faculty  in  woman,  which  we  men  call  dissimulation,  and 
which  in  them  is  truthfulness  to  their  own  nature,  enabled  her 
to  carry  off  the  sharpest  anguish  she  had  ever  experienced  by 
a  sudden  burst  of  levity  of  spirit.  She  caught  up  some  common- 
place the  Minister  had  adapted  to  what  he  considered  the  pov- 
erty of  her  understanding,  with  a  quickness  of  satire  which 
startled  that  grave  man,  and  he  gazed  at  her  astonished.  Up 
to  this  moment  he  had  secretly  admired  her  as  a  girl  well  brought 
up — as  girls  fresh  from  a  French  convent  are  supposed  to  be;  now 
hearing  her  brilliant  rejoinder  to  his  stupid  observation  he  said 
inly,  "  Dame !  the  low  birth  of  a  financier's  daughter  shows 
itself." 

But,  being  a  clever  man  himself,  her  retort  put  him  on  his 
mettle,  and  he  became,  to  his  own  amazement  brilliant  himself. 
With  that  matchless  quickness  which  belongs  to  Parisians,  the 
guests  around  him  seized  the  new  esprit  de  conversation  which 
had  been  evoked  between  the  statesman  and  the  childlike  girl 
beside  him  :  and  as  they  caught  up  the  ball  lightly  flung  among 
them,  they  thought  within  themselves  how  much  more  sparkling 
the  financier's  pretty  lively  daughter  was  than  that  dark-eyed 
young  nuise,  of  whom  all  the  journalists  in  Paris  were  writing 
in  a  chorus  of  welcome  and  applause,  and  who  seemed  not  to 
have  a  word  to  say  worth  listening  to,  except  to  the  handsome 
3'oung  Marquis,  whom,  no  doubt,  she  wished  to  fascinate. 

Valerie  fairly  outshone  Isaura  in  intellect  and  in  wit ;  and 
neither  Valdrie  nor  Isaura  cared,  to  the  value  of  a  bean-straw, 
about  that  distinction.     Each  was  thinking  only  of   the  prize 


THE  PARISIANS.  373 

which  the  humblest  peasant  women  have  in  common  with  the 
most  brilUantly  accompUshed  of  their  sex— the  heart  of  a  man 
beloved. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


On  the  Continent  generall}',  as  we  all  know,  men  do  not  sit 
drinking  wine  together  after  the  ladies  retire.  So  when  the 
signal  was  given  all  the  guests  adjourned  to  \\\q.  salofi ;  and 
Alain  quilted  Isaura  to  gain  the  ear  of  the  Duchesse  de 
Tarascon. 

"  It  is  long — at  least  long  for  Paris  life,"  said  the  Marquis 
— "  Since  my  first  visit  to  you,  in  company  with  Enguerrand 
de  Vandemnr.  Much  that  you  then  said  rested  on  my  mind, 
disturbing  the  prejudices  I  took  from  Bretagne." 

"  I  am  proud  to  hear  it,  my  kinsman." 

"You  know  that  I  would  have  taken  military  service  under 
the  Emperor,  but  for  the  regulation  which  would  have  com- 
pelled me  to  enter  the  ranks  as  a  private  soldier." 

"  I  sympathize  with  that  scruple  ;  but  you  are  aware  that 
the  Emperor  himself  could  not  have  ventured  to  make  an 
exception  even  in  your  favor." 

"  Certainly  not.  I  repent  me  of  niy  pride ;  perhaps  I  may 
enlist  still  in  some  regiment  sent  to  Algiers." 

"  No,  there  are  other  ways  in  which  a  Rochebriant  can  serve 
a  throne.  There  will  be  an  office  at  Court  vacant  soon,  which 
would  not  misbecome  your  birth." 

"  Pardon  me ;  a  soldier  serves  his  country — a  courtier 
owns  a  master;  and  I  cannot  take  the  livery  of  the  Emperor, 
though  I  could  wear  the  uniform  of  Erance." 

"  Your  distinction  is  childish,  my  kinsman,"  said  the  Duch- 
esse impetuously.  "  You  talk  as  if  the  Emperor  had  an 
•merest  apart  from  the  nation.  I  tell  you  that  he  has  not  a 
rorner  of  his  heart — not  even  one  reserved  for  his  son  and 
his  dynasty — in  which  the  thought  of  France  does  not  pre- 
dominate." 

"  I  do  not  presume,  Madame  la  Duchesse,  to  question  the 
truth  of  what  you  say  ;  but  I  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that 
the  same  thought  does  not  predominate  in  the  heart  of  the 
Bourbon.  The  Bourbon  would  be  the  first  to  say  to  me,  '  If 
France  needs  your   sword  against  her  foes,  let  it  not   rest  in 


374 


THE  PARISIANS. 


the  scabbard.'  But  would  the  Bourbon  saj^,  '  The  place  of  a 
Rochebriant  is  among  the  vaktaille  of  the  Corsican's  suc- 
cessor' ?  " 

"  Alas  for  poor  France,"  said  the  Duchesse,  "  and  alas  for 
men  like  you,  my  proud  cousin,  if  the  Corsican's  successors  or 
successor  be " 

"Henry  V.  ?  "  interrupted  Alain,  with  a  brightening  eye. 

"  Dreamer  !  No  ;  some  descendant  of  the  mob-kings  who 
gave  Bourbons  and  nobles  to  the  guillotine." 

While  the  Duchesse  and  Alain  were  thus  conversing,  Isaura 
had  seated  herself  by  Vale'rie,  and,  unconscious  of  the  offence 
she  had  given,  addressed  her  in  those  pretty  caressing  terms 
with  which  young  lady  friends  are  wont  to  compliment  each 
other ;  but  Valerie  answered  curtly  or  sarcastically,  and  turned 
aside  to  converse  with  the  Minister.  A  few  minutes  more, 
and  the  party  began  to  break  up.  Lemercier,  however,  de- 
tained Alain,  whispering,  "  Duplessis  will  see  us  on  your 
business  so  soon  as  the  other  guests  have  gone." 


CHAPTER  V. 


"  Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  said  Duplessis,  when  the  salon 
was  cleared  of  all  but  himself  and  the  iwo  friends,  "  Lemercier 
has  confided  to  me  the  state  of  your  affairs  in  connection  with 
M.  Louvier,  and  flatters  me  by  thinking  my  advice  may  be  of 
some  service  ;     if  so,  command  me." 

"  I  shall  most  gratefully  accept  your  advice,"  answered  Alain, 
"  but  I  fear  my  condition  defies  even  your  ability  and  skill." 

"  Permit  me  to  hope  not,  and  to  ask  a  few  necessary  ques- 
tions. M.  Louvier  has  constituted  himself  your  sole  mortgagee  ; 
to  what  amount,  at  what  interest,  and  from  what  annual  pro- 
ceeds is  the  interest  paid  ?  " 

Herewith  Alain  gave  details  already  furnished  to  the  reader. 
Duplessis  listened,  and  noted  down  the  replies. 

"  I  see  it  all,"  he  said,  when  Alain  had  finished.  "  M, 
Louvier  had  predetermined  to  possess  himself  of  j'^our  estate  ; 
he  makes  himself  sole  mortgagee  at  a  rate  of  interest  so  low 
that,  I  tell  you  fairly,  at  the  present  value  of  money,  I  doubt 
if  you  could  find  any  capitalists  who  would  accept  the  trausfei 


THE  PARISIANS. 


375 


of  the  mortgage  at  the  same  rate.     This  is  not  like  Loiivier, 
unless  he  had  an  object  to  gain  ;  and  that  object  is  your  land. 
The  revenue  from  your  estate  is  derived  chiefly  from  wood, 
out  of  which  the  interest  due  to  Louvier  is  to  be  paid.     M. 
Gandrin,  in  a  skilfully-guarded  letter,  encourages  you  to   sell 
the  wood  from  your  forests  to  a  man  who  offers   you  several 
thousand  francs   more  than  it  could  command  from  customary 
buyers.     I   say    nothing  against  M.   Gandrin,  but  every    man 
who  knows  Paris  as    I   do  knows  that  M.  Louvier  can  put, 
and  has  put,  a  great  deal  of  money  into   M.  Gandrin's  pocket. 
The  purchaser  of  your  wood  does  not  pay  more  than    his  de- 
posit, and  has  just  left  the  country  insolvent.     Your  purchaser, 
M.    Collot,    was  an   adventurous  speculator ;    he  would   have 
bought  anything  at  any  price,   provided   he  had  time  to  pay  ; 
if  his  speculations   had  been   lucky  he  would  have  paid.     M. 
Louvier  knew,  as  I  knew,  that  M.  Collot  was   a  gambler,  and 
the  chances  were  that  he  would  not  pay.     M.   Louvier  allows 
a   year's   interest   on   his  hypotheque  to   become   due — notice 
thereof  duly  given  to  you  by  his  agent — now  you  come  under 
the  operation  of  the  law.     Of  course  you  know  what  the  law 


IS." 


Not*exactly,"  answered  Alain,  feeling  frostbitten  by  the 
congealing  words  of  his  counsellor  ;  "  But  I  take  it  for  granted 
that  if  I  cannot  pay  the  interest  of  a  sum  borrowed  on  my  pro- 
perty that  property  itself  is  forfeited." 

"  No,  not  quite  that — the  law  is  mild.  If  the  interest  which 
should  be  paid  half-yearly  remains  unpaid  at  the  end  of  a  year 
the  mortgagee  has  a  right  to  be  impatient,  has  he  not  ?  " 

"  Certainly  he  has." 

"  Well,  then,  on  fait  u?i  commandetnent  tendant  a  saisie  tm- 
mohiliere,  viz  :  The  mortgagee  gives  a  notice  that  the  property 
shall  be  put  up  for  sale.  Then  it  is  put  up  for  sale,  and  in 
most  cases  the  mortgagee  buys  it  in.  Here,  certainly,  no  com- 
petitors in  the  mere  business-way  would  vie  with  Louvier  ;  the 
mortgage  at  thiee  and  a  half  per  cent,  covers  more  than  the 
estate  is  apparently  worth.  Ah  !  but  stop,  M.  le  Marquis  ;  the 
notice  is  not  yet  served  :  the  whole  process  would  take  six 
months  from  the  day  it  is  served  to  the  taking  possession  after 
the  sale  ;  in  the  meanwhile,  if  you  pay  the  interest  due,  the 
action  drops.  Courage,  M.  le  Marquis  !  Hope  yet,  if  you  con- 
descend to  call  me  friend." 

"  And  me,"  cried  Lemercier ;  "  I  will  sell  out  of  my  railway 
shares  to-morrow — see  to  it,  Duplessis — enough  to  pay  off  the 
damnable  interest.     See  to  it,  mon  ami.'' 


376 


THE  PARISIANS. 


"Agree  to  that,  M. .le  Marquis,  and  you  are  safe  for  another 
year,"  said  Duplessis,  folding  up  the  paper  on  which  he  had 
made  his  notes,  but  fixing  on  Alain  quiet  eyes  half  concealed 
under  dropping  lids." 

"  Agree  to  that !  "  cried  Rochebriant,  rising — "  agree  to 
allow  even  my  worst  enemy  to  pay  for  me  moneys  I  could 
never  hope  to  repay — agree  to  allow  the  oldest  and  most  con- 
fiding of  my  friends  to  do  so — M.  Duplessis,  never  1  If  I  car- 
ried the  porter's  knot  of  an  Auvergnat,  I  should  still  remain^^«- 
iilho7nme  and  Breton^ 

Duplessis,  habitually  the  driest  of  men,  rose  with  a  moistened 
eye  and  flushing  cheek.  "  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  vouchsafe  me 
the  honor  to  shake  hands  with  you.  I  too  am  by  descent  gcntil- 
honwie,  by  profession  a  speculator  on  the  Bourse.  In  both 
capacities  I  approve  the  sentiment  you  have  utttered.  Certainly, 
if  our  friend  Frederic  lent  you  7000  louis  or  so  this  year,  it 
would  be  impossible  for  you  even  to  foresee  the  year  in  which 
you  could  repay  it ;  but" — here  Duplessis -paused  a  minute,  and 
then  lowering  the  tone  of  his  voice,  which  had  been  somewhat 
vehement  and  enthusiastic,  into  that  of  a  colloquial  good  fellow- 
ship, equally  rare  to  the  measured  reserve  of  the  financier,  he 
asked,  with  a  lively  twinkle  of  his  gray  eye,  "  Did  yx)\\  never 
hear.  Marquis,  of  a  little  encounter  between  me  and  M. 
Louvier  ?  " 

"Encounter  at  arms — does  Louvier  fight?"  asked  Alain, 
mnocently. 

"  In  his  own  way  he  is  always  fighting ;  but  I  speak  meta- 
phorically. You  see  this  small  house  of  mine — so  pinched  in 
by  the  houses  next  to  it  that  I  can  neitlier  get  space  for  a  ball- 
room for  Valerie,  nor  a  dining-room  for  more  than  a  friendly 
party  like  that  which  has  honored  me  to-day.  Eh  bien  !  I 
bought  this  house  a  few  years  ago,  meaning  to  buy  the  one  next 
to  it  and  throw  the  two  into  one.  I  went  to  the  proprietor  of 
the  next  house,  who,  as  I  knew,  wished  to  sell.  '  Aha,'  he 
thought,  '  this  is  the  rich  Monsieur  Duplessis  ; '  and  he  asked 
me  2000  louis  more  than  the  house  was  worth.  We  men  of  busi- 
ness cannot  bear  to  be  too  much  cheated  ;  a  little  cheating  we 
submit  to — much  cheating  raises  our  gall.  Brcf — this  was  on 
Monday.  I  offered  the  man  1000  louis  above  the  fairpirce 
and  gave  him  till  Thursday  to  decide.  Somehow  or  other 
Louvier  hears  of  this.  '  Hillo  I '  says  *  Louvier,  here  is  a  finan- 
cier who  desires  a  hotel  to  vie  with  mine  ! '  He  goes  on  Wed- 
nesday to  my  next  door  neighbor.  '  Friend  you  want  to  sell 
your  house.     I  want  to  buy — the  price  ? "     The   proprietor, 


THE  PARISIANS. 


377 


who  does  not  know  him  by  sight,  says,  '  It  is  as  good  as  sold. 
M  Duplessis  and  I  shall  agree.'  '  Bah  !  What  sum  did  you 
ask  M.  Duplessis  .■' '  He  names  the  sum  ;  2000  louis  more  than 
he  can  get  elsewhere,  '  But  M.  Duplessis  will  give  me  the  sum.' 
'  You  asked  too  little.  I  will  give  you  3000.  A  fig  for  M. 
Duplessis !  I  am  Monsieur  Louvier.'  So  when  I  call  on 
Thursday  the  house  is  sold.  I  reconciled  myself  easily  enough 
to  the  loss  of  space  for  a  larger  dining-room  ;  but,  though 
Vale'rie  was  then  a  child  at  a  convent,  I  was  sadly  disconcerted 
by  the  thought  that  I  could  have  no  salle  de  bal  ready  for  her 
when  she  came  to  reside  with  me.  Well,  I  say  to  myself, 
patience  ;  I  owe  M.  Louvier  a  good  turn  ;  my  time  to  pay  him 
off  will  come.  It  does  come,  and  ver)'  soon.  M.  Louvier  buys 
an  estate  near  Paris — builds  a  superb  villa.  Close  to  his  prop- 
erty is  a  rising  forest  ground  for  sale.  He  goes  to  the  proprie- 
tor ;  says  the  proprietor  to  himself,  '  The  great  Louvier,  wants 
this,"  and  adds  5000  louis  to  its  market  price.  Louvier,  like 
myself,  can't  bear  to  be  cheated  egregiously.  Louvier  offers 
2000  louis  more  than  the  man  could  -fairly  get,  and  leaves  him 
till  Saturday  to  consider.  I  hear  of  this — speculators  hear  of 
every  thing.  On  Friday  night  I  go  to  the  man  and  give  him 
6000  louis  where  he  had  asked  5000.  Fancy  Louvier's  face 
next  day !  But  there  my  revenge  only  begins,"  continued 
Duplessis,  chuckling  inwardly.  "  My  forest  looks  down  on  the 
villa  he  is  building.  I  only  wait  till  his  villa  is  built,  in  order  to 
send  to  my  architect  and  say.  Build  me  a  villa  at  least  twice  as 
grand  as  M.  Louvier's  then  clear  away  the  forest  trees,  so  that 
every  morning  he  may  see  my  palace  dwarfing  into  insignifi- 
cance his  own." 

"Bravo  !  "  cried  Lemercier,  clapping  his  hands.  Lemercier 
had  the  spirit  of  party,  and  felt  for  Duplessis  against  Louvier 
much  as  in  England  Whig  feels  against  Tory,  or  vice  versa. 

"  Perhaps  now,"  resumed  Duplessis  more  soberly, — "per- 
haps now,  M.  le  Marquis,  you  might  understand  why  I  humili- 
ate you  by  no  sense  of  obligation  if  I  say  that  M.  Louvier  shall 
not  be  the  Seigneur  de  Rochebriant  if  I  can  help  it.  Give  me  a 
line  of  introduction  to  your  Breton  lawyer  and  to  Mademoiselle 
your  aunt — let  me  have  your  letters  early  to-morrow.  I  will 
take  the  afternoon  train.  I  know  not  how  many  days  I  may  be 
absent,  but  I  shall  not  return  till  I  have  carefully  examined  the 
nature  and  conditions  of  your  property.  If  I  see  my  way  to 
save  your  estate  and  give  a  mauvais  quart  d' heure  to  Louvier, 
so  much  the  better  for  you  M,  le  Marquis  ;  if  I  cannot  I  will 
say  frankly,  '  Make  the  best  terms  you  can  with  your  creditor." 


378  THE  PARISIANS. 

"  Nothing  can  be  more  delicately  generous  than  the  way 
you  put  it,"  said  Alain ;  "  but  pardon  me  if  I  say  that  the 
pleasantry  with  which  you  narrate  your  grudge  against  M. 
Louvier  does  not  answer  its  purpose  in  diminishing  my  sense 
of  obligation."  So,  Unking  his  arm  in  Lemercier's,  Alain  made 
his  bow  and  withdrew. 

When  his  guests  Lad  gone,  Duplessis  remained  seated  in 
meditation — apparently  pleasant  meditation,  for  he  smiled 
while  indulging  it ;  he  then  passed  through  the  reception  rooms 
to  one  at  the  far  end,  appropriated  to  Valdrie  as  a  boudoir  or 
morning-room,  adjoining  her  bed-chamber;  he  knocked  gently 
at  the  door,  and,  all  remaining  silent  within,  he  opened  it 
noiselessly  and  entered.  Valerie  was  reclining  on  the  sofa 
near  the  window — her  head  drooping,  her  hands  clasped  on 
her  knees.  Duplessis  neared  her  with  tender  stealthy  steps, 
passed  his  arm  round  her,  and  drew  her  head  towards  his  bosom. 
"  Child  !  "  he  murmured  ;  "  my  child  !  my  only  one  !  " 

At  that  soft  loving  voice,  Valerie  flung  her  arms  round  him, 
and  wept  aloud  like  an  infant  in  trouble.  He  seated  himself 
beside  her,  and  wisely  suffered  her  to  weep  on  till  her  passion 
had  exhausted  itself ;  he  then  said,  hal/  fondly,  half  chidingly 
"  Have  you  forgotten  our  conversation  only  three  days  ago 
Have  you  forgotten  that  I  then  drew  forth  the  secret  of  your 
heart  ?  Have  you  forgotten  what  I  promised  you  in  return  for 
your  confidence  ?  and  a  promise  to  you  have  I  ever  yet  broken  ;'  " 

"  Father !  father  !  I  am  so  wretched,  and  so  ashamed  of 
myself  for  being  wretched  !  Forgive  me.  No,  I  do  not  forget 
your  promise  ;  but  who  can  promise  to  dispose  of  the  heart  of 
another .''  and  that  heart  will  never  be  mine.  But  bear  with  me 
a  little  ;  I  shall  soon  recover." 

"  VaMrie  when  I  made  you  the  promise  you  now  think  I  can- 
not keep,  I  spoke  only  from  that  conviction  of  power  to  promote 
the  happiness  of  a  child  which  nature  inplants  in  the  heart  of 
parents  ;  and  it  may  be  also  from  the  experience  of  my  own 
strength  of  will,  since  that  which  I  have  willed  I  have  alwa3'S 
won.  Now  I  speak  on  yet  surer  ground.  Before  the  year  is 
out  you  shall  be  the  beloved  wife  of  Alain  cle  Rochebriant. 
Dry  your  tears,  and  smile  on  me,  VaMrie.  If  you  will  not  see  in 
me  mother  and  father  both,  I  have  double  love  for  you,  mother- 
less child  of  her  who  shared  the  poverty  of  my  youth  and  did  not 
live  to  enjoy  the  wealth  which  I  hold  as  a  trust  for  that  heir  to 
mine,  all  which  she  left  me." 

As  this  man  thus  spoke,  you  would  scarcely  have  recog- 
nized,  in  him  the  cold  saturnine   Duplessis,  his  countenance 


THE  PARISIANS.  379 

became  so  beautified  by  the  one  soft  feeling  which  care  and 
contest,  ambition  and  money-seeking,  had  left  unaltered  in  his 
heart.  Perhaps  there  is  no  country  in  which  the  love  of 
parent  and  child,  especially  of  father  and  daughter,  is  so  strong 
as  it  is  in  PYance  ;  even  in  the  most  arid  soil,  even  among  the 
avaricious,  even  among  the  profligate,  it  forces  itself  into 
flower.  Other  loves  fade  away;  in  the  heart  of  the  true 
Frenchman  that  parent  love  blooms  to  the  last. 

Valerie  felt  the  presence  of  that  love  as  a  divine  protect- 
ing guardianship.  She  sank  on  her  knees  and  covered  his 
hand  with  grateful  kisses. 

"  Do  not  torture  yourself,  my  child,  with  jealous  fears  of 
the  fair  Italian.  Her  lot  and  Alain  de  Rochebriant's  can  never 
unite  ;  and,  whatever  you  may  think  of  their  whispered  con- 
verse, Alain's  heart,  at  this  moment,  is  too  filled  with  anxious 
troubles  to  leave  one  spot  in  it  accessible  even  to  a  frivolous 
gallantry.  It  is  for  us  to  remove  these  troubles  ;  and  then, 
when  he  turns  his  eyes  towards  you,  it  will  be  with  the  gaze  0/ 
one  who  beholds  his  happiness.  You  do  not  weep  now 
Valferie !  " 


38o  THE  PAR/SI  A  JVS 


BOOK   IX. 


CHAPTER  I. 

On  waking  some  morning,  have  you  ever  felt,  read^^r,  as  if 
a  change  for  the  brighter  in  the  world,  without  and  within  you, 
had  suddenly  come  to  pass — some  new  glory  has  been  given  to 
the  sunshir»e,  some  fresh  balm  to  the  air — you  feel  younger, 
and  happier,  and  lighter,  in  the  very  beat  of  your  heart— you 
almost  fancy  you  hear  the  chime  of  some  spiritual  music  far  off, 
as  if  in  the  deeps  of  heaven  ?  You  are  not  at  first  conscious 
how,  or  wherefore,  this  change  has  been  brought  about.  Is  it 
the  effect  of  a  dream  in  the  gone  sleep,  that  has  made  this 
morning  so  different  from  mornings  that  have  dawned  before  ? 
And  while  vaguely  asking  yourself  that  question,  you  become 
aware  that  the  cause  is  no  mere  illusion,  that  it  has  its  substance 
in  words  spoken  by  living  lips,  in  things  that  belong  to  the 
work-day  world. 

It  was  thus  that  Isaura  woke  the  morning  after  the  conver- 
sation with  de  Rochebriant,  and  as  certain  words,  then  spoken, 
echoed  back  on  her  ear,  she  knew  why  she  was  so  happy,  why 
the  world  was  so  changed. 

In  those  words  she  heard  the  voice  of  Graham  Vane — no  ! 
she  had  not  deceived  herself — she  was  loved !  she  was  loved  ! 
What  mattered  that  long  cold  interval  of  absence  ?  She  had 
not  forgotten — she  could  not  believe  that  absence  had  brought 
forgetfulness.  There  are  momnets  when  we  insist  on  judging 
another's  heart  by  our  own.  All  would  be  explained  some 
day — all  would  come  right. 

How  lovely  was  the  face  that  reflected  itself  in  the  g>.i?s  as 
she  stood  before  it  smoothing  back  her  long  hair,  muinuiring 
sweet  snatches  of  Italian  love-song,  and  blushing  with  sw6SV?r 
love-lhoughts  as  she  sang  I  All  that  had  passed  in  that  year  vo 
critical  to  her  outer  life — the  authorship,  the  fame,  the  pnl;l\c 
career,  the  popular  praise — vanished  from  her  mind  as  a  vapoi 


THE  PARISIANS.  381 

that  rolls  from  the  face  of  a  lake  to  which  the  sunlight  restores 
the  smile  of  a  brightened  heaven. 

She  was  more  the  girl  now  than  she  had  ever  been  since  the 
day  on  which  she  sat  reading  Tasso  on  the  craggy  shore  of 
Sorrento. 

Singing  still  as  she  passed  from  her  chamber,  and  entering 
the  sittingf-room,  which  fronted  the  east  and  seemed  bathed  in 
the  sunbeams  of  deepening  May,  she  took  her  bird  from  its 
cage,  and  stopped  her  song  to  cover  it  with  kisses,  which  per- 
haps yearned  for  vent  somewhere. 

Later  in  the  day  she  went  out  to  visit  Valerie.  Recalling 
the  altered  manner  of  her  young  friend,  her  sweet  nature  be- 
came troubled.  She  divined  that  Valerie  had  conceived  some 
jealous  pain,  which  she  lorded  to  heal  ;  she  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  leaving  any  one  that  day  unhappy.  Ignorant  before 
of  the  girl's  feelings  towards  Alain,  she  now  partly  guessed  them 
—one  woman  who  loves  in  secret  is  clairvoyante  as  to  such  secrets 
in  another. 

Valerie  received  her  visitor  with  a  coldness  she  did  not  at- 
tempt to  disguise.  Not  seeming  to  notice  this,  Isaura  com- 
menced the  conversation  with  frank  mention  of  Rochebriant. 
"  I  have  to  thank  you  so  much,  dear  Valerie,  for  a  pleasure  you 
could  not  anticipate — that  of  talking  about  an  absent  friend, 
and  hearing  the  praise  he  deserved  from  one  so  capable  oi 
appreciating  excellence  as  M.  de  Rochebriant  appears  to  be." 

"  You  were  talking  to  M.  de  Rochebriant  of  an  absent 
friend — ah  !  vou  seemed  indeed  very  much  interested  in  the 
conversation " 

"  Do  not  wonder  at  that,  Valerie  ;  and  do  not  grudge  me  the 
happiest  moments  I  have  known  for  months." 

"  In  talking  with  M.  de  Rochebriant  !  No  doubt  Made- 
moiselle Cicogna,  you  found  him  very  charming," 

To  her  surprise  and  indignation,  Valere  here  felt  the  arm  of 
Isaura  tenderly  entwining  her  waist,  and  her  face  drawn  towards 
Jsaura's  sisterly  kiss. 

*'  Listen  to  me,  naughty  child — listen  and  believe.  M.  de 
Rochebriant  can  never  be  charming  to  me — never  touch  a  chord 
in  my  heart  or  my  fancy,  except  as  friend  to  another,or — kiss 
me  in  your  turn,  Valerie — as  suitor  to  yourself." 

Valerie  here  drew  back  her  pretty  childlike  head,  gazed 
keenly  a  moment  into  Isaura's  eyes,  felt  convinced  by  the  limpid 
candor  of  their  unmistakable  honesty,  and,  flinging  herself  on 
her  friend's  bosom,  kissed  her  passionately,  and  burst  into 
lears. 


382  THE  PARISIANS. 

The  complete  reconciliation  between  the  two  girls  \\ias  thus 
peacefully  effected  ;  and  then  Isaura  had  to  listen,  at  no  small 
length,  to  the  confidences  poured  into  her  ears  by  Valerie,  who 
was  fortunately  too  engrossed  by  her  own  hopes  and  doubts  to 
exact  confidences  in  return.  VaMrie's  was  one  of  those  im- 
pulsive eager  natures  that  long  for  a  confidante.  Not  so  Isaura's. 
Only  when  Valerie  had  unburdened  her  heart,  and  been  soothed 
and  caressed  into  happy  trust  in  the  future,  did  she  recall 
Isaura's  explanatory  words,  and  say,  archly,  "  And  your  absent 
friend  .?     Tell  me  about  him.     Is  he  as  handsome  as  Alain  t  " 

"  Nay,"  said  Isaura,  rising,  to  take  up  the  mantle  and  hat 
she  had  laid  aside  on  entering,  "  they  say  that  the  color  of  a 
(lower  is  in  our  vision,  not  in  the  leaves."  Then,  with  a  grave 
melancholy  in  the  look  she  fixed  upon  Valerie,  she  added, 
"  Rather  than  distrust  of  me  should  occasion  you  the  pain,  I  have 
pained  myself.in  making  clear  to  you  the  reason  why  I  felt  interest 
in  M.  de  Rochebriant's  conversation.  In  turn,  I  ask  of  you  a 
favor — do  not  on  this  point  question  me  further.  There  are 
some  things  in  our  past  which  influence  the  present,  but  to 
which  we  dare  not  assign  a  future — on  which  we  cannot  talk  to 
another.  What  soothsayer  can  tell  us  if  the  dream  of  a  yester- 
day will  be  renewed  on  the  night  of  a  morrow  ?  All  is  said — 
we  trust  one  another,  dearest." 


CHAPTER  II. 

That  evening  the  Morleys  looked  in  at  Isaura's  on  their 
way  to  a  crowded  assembly  at  the  house  of  one  of  those  rich 
Americans  who  were  then  outvying  the  English  residents  at 
Paris  in  the  good  graces  of  Parisian  society.  I  think  the  Ameri- 
cans get  on  better  with  the  French  than  the  English  do — I 
mean  the  higher  class  of  Americans.  They  spend  more  money ; 
their  men  speak  French  better  ;  the  women  are  better  dressed, 
and,  as  a  general  rule,  have  read  more  largely  and  converse 
more  frankly. 

Mrs.  Morley's  affection  for  Isaura  had  increased  during  the 
last  few  months.  As  so  notable  an  advocate  of  the  ascendency 
of  her  sex,  she  felt  a  sort  of  grateful  pride  in  the  accomplish- 
ments and  growing  renown  of  so  youthful  a  member  of  the 
oppressed  sisterhood.     But,  apart  from  that  sentiment,  she  had 


TFTE  PARISIANS.  383 

conceived  a  tender  mother-like  interest  for  the  girl  who  stood  in 
the  world  so  utterly  devoid  of  family  ties,  so  destitute  of  that 
household  guardianship  and  protection  which,  with  ^11  her  asser- 
tion of  the  strength  and  dignity  of  wonian,and  all  her  opinions 
as  to  woman's  right  of  absolute  emancipation  from  the  conven- 
tions fabricated  by  the  selfishness  of  man,  Mrs.  Morley  was  too 
sensible  not  to  value  for  the  individual,  though  she  deemed  it  not 
needed  for  the  mass.  Her  great  desire  was  that  Isaura  should 
marry  well,  and  soon,  American  women  usually  marry  so  young, 
that  it  seemed  to  Mrs.  Morley  an  anomaly  in  social  life  that  one 
so  gifted  in  mind  and  person  as  Isaura  should  already  have 
passed  the  age  in  which  the  belles  of  the  great  Republic  are 
enthroned  as  wives  and  consecrated  as  mothers. 

We  have  seen  that  in  the  past  year  she  had  selected  from 
our  unworthy  but  necessary  sex  Graham  Vane  as  a  suitable 
spouse  to  her  young  friend.  She  had  divined  the  state  of  his 
heart — she  had  more  than  suspicions  of  the  state  of  Isaura's. 
She  was  exceedingly  perplexed  and  exceedingly  chafed  at  the 
Englishman's  strange  disregard  to  his  happiness  and  her  own 
projects.  She  had  counted,  all  this  last  winter,  on  his  return 
to  Paris  ;  and  she  became  convinced  that  some  misunderstand- 
ing, possibly  some  lovers'  quarrel,  was  the  cause  of  his  portract- 
ed  absence,  and  a  cause  that,  if  ascertained,  could  be  removed. 
A  good  opportunity  now  presented  itself — Colonel  Morley  was 
going  to  London  the  next  day.^  He  had  business  there  which 
would  detain  him  at  least  a  w'eek.  He  would  see  Graham  ;  and 
as  she  considered  her  husband  the  shrewdest  and  wisest  person 
in  the  world — I  mean  of  the  male  sex — she  had  no  doubt  of 
his  being  able  to  turn  Graham's  mind  thoroughly  inside  out,  and 
ascertain  his  exact  feelings,  views,  and  intentions.  If  the  Eng- 
lishman, thus  essayed,  were  found  of  base  metal  then,  at  least, 
Mrs.  Morley  would  be  free  to  cast  him  altogether  aside  and  coin 
for  the  uses  of  the  matrimonial  markcet  some  nobler  effigy  in 
purer  gold. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Morley,  in  low  voice,  nestliug 
herself  close  to  Isaura,  while  the  Colonel,  duly  instructed,  drew 
off  the  Venosta,  "  have  you  heard  anything  lately  of  our 
pleasant  friend  Mr.  Vane  .''  " 

You  can  guess  with  what  artful  design  Mrs.  Morley  put 
that  question  point-blank,  fixing  keen  eyes  on  Isaura  while  she 
put  it.  She  saw  the  heightened  color,  the  quivering  lip,  of  the 
girl  thus  abruptly  appealed  to,  and  she  said,  inly,  "  I  was  right 
— she  loves  him  !  " 

"  1  heard  of  Mr.  Vane  last  night — accidentally." 


384 


THE  PARISIAN'S. 


"  Is  he  coming  to  Paris  soon  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  How  charmingly  that  wreath  be- 
comes you  I  it  suits  the  earrings  so  well,  too." 

"  Frank  chose  it  ;  he  has  good  taste  for  a  man.  I  trust 
him  with  my  commissions  to  Hunt  and  Roskell's,  but  I  Hmit 
him  as  to  price,  he  is  so  extravagant — men  are,  when  they  make 
presents.  They  seem  to  think  we  value  things  according  to 
their  cost.  They  would  gorge  us  with  jewels,  and  let  us 
starve  for  want  of  a  smile.  Not  that  Frank  is  so  bad  as  the 
rest  of  them.  But  apropos  of  Mr.  Vane — Frank  will  be  sure 
to  see  him,  and" scold  him  well  for  deserting  us  all.  I  should 
not  be  surprised  if  he  brought  the  deserter  back  with  him,  for  I 
sent  a  little  note  by  Frank,  inviting  him  to  pay  us  a  visit.  We 
have  spare  room  in  our  apartments." 

Isaura's  heart  heaved  beneath  her  robe  ;  but  she  replied,  in 
a  tone  of  astonishing  indifference,  "  I  believe  this  is  the  height 
of  the  London  season ;  and  Mr.  Vane  would  probably  be  too 
engaged  to  profit  even  by  an  invitation  so  tempting." 

"  Nous  verrons.  How  pleased  he  will  be  to  hear  of  your 
triumphs  I  He  admired  you  so  much  before  you  were  famous : 
what  will  be  his  admiration  now  1  Men  are  so  vain — they  care 
for  us  so  much  more  when  people  praise  us.  But,  till  we  have 
put  the  creatures  in  their  proper  place  we  must  take  them  for 
what  they  are." 

Here  the  Venosta,  with  whom  the  poor  Colonel  had  ex- 
hausted all  the  arts  at  his  command  for  chaining  her  attention 
could  be  no  longer  be  withheld  from  approaching  Mrs.  Morley 
and  venting  her  admiration  of  that  lady's  wreath,  earrings,  robes, 
flounces.  This  dazzling  apparition  had  on  her  the  effect  which 
a  candle  has  on  a  moth — she  fluttered  round  it  and  longed  to 
absorb  herself  in  its  blaze.  But  the  wreath  especially  fas- 
cinated her — a  wreath  which  no  prudent  lady  with  colorings 
less  pure  and  features  less  exquisitely  delicate  than  the  pretty 
champion  of  the  rights  of  women,  could  have  fancied  on  her 
own  brows  without  a  shudder.  But  the  Venosta  in  such  matters 
was  not  prudent.  "  It  can't  be  dear,"  she  cried,  piteously,  ex- 
tending her  arms  towards  Isaura.  "  I  must  have  one  exactly  like 
It.     Who  made  it  ?     Cara  signora,  give  me  the  address." 

"  Ask  the  Colonel,  dear  Madame ;  he  chose  and  bought 
it."  And  Mrs.  Morley  glanced  significantly  at  her  well-tutored 
Frank. 

"  Madame,"  said  the  Colonel,  speaking  in  English,  which 
he  usually  did  with  the  Venosta — who  valued  herself  on  know- 
ing that  language,  and  was  flattered  to  be  addressed  in  it — while 


THE  PARISIANS.  3g,: 


J 


he  amused  himself  by  introducing  into  its  forms  the  dainty 
Americanisms  with  which  he  puzzled  the  Britisher — he  might 
well  puzzle  the  Florentine, — "  Madame,  I  am  too  anxious  for 
the  appearance  of  my  wife  to  submit  to  the  test  of  a  rival 
screamer  like  yourself  in  the  same  apparel.  With  all  the 
homage  due  to  a  sex  of  which  I  am  enthused  dreadful,  I  decline 
to  designate  the  florist  from  whom  I  purchased  Mrs.  Morley's 
head-fixings," 

"  Wicked  man  .-•  "  cried  the  Venosta,  shaking  I>er  finger  at 
him  coquettishly.  "  You  are  jealous  !  Fie  !  a  man  should  ne\er 
be  jealous  of  a  woman  ;  "  and  then,  with  a  cynicism  that  might 
have  become  a  graybeard,  she  added,  "  but  of  his  own  sex 
every  man  should  be  jealous — though  of  his  dearest  friend 
Isn't  it  so,  Colonello }" 

The  Colonel  looked  puzzled,  bowed,  and  made  no  reply. 

"  That  only  shows,"  said  Mrs.  Morley,  rising,  "  what  vil- 
lains the  Colonel  has  the  misfortune  to  call  friends  and  fellow- 
men." 

"  I  fear  it  is  time  to  go,"  said  Frank,  glancing  at  the  clock 
In  theory  the  most  rebellious,  in  practice  the  most  obedient,  of 
wives,  Mrs.  Morley  here  kissed  Isaura,  resettled  her  crinoline, 
and,  retreated  shaking  hands  with  the  Venosta,  to  the  door. 

"  I  shall  have  the  wreath  yet,"  said  the  Venosta,  impishly, 
"  Z,a  speranza  e  femmifta"  (Hope  is  female), 

"  Alas  .''  "  said  Isaura,  half  mournfully,  half  smiling — "  alas  ! 
do  you  not  remember  what  the  poet  replied  when  asked  what 
disease  was  most  mortal  1 — '  the  hectic  fever  caught  from  the 
chill  of  hope.' " 


CHAPTER  III. 

Graham  Vane  was  musing  very  gloomily  in  his  solitary 
apartment  one  morning,  when  his  servant  announced  Colonel 
Morley. 

He  received  his  visitor  with  more  than  the  cordiality  with 
which  every  English  politician  receives  an  American  citizen. 
Graham  liked  the  Colonel  too  well  for  what  he  was  in  himself, 
to  need  any  national  title  to  his  esteem.  After  some  prelim- 
inary questions  and  answers  as  to  the  health  of  Mrs.  Morley, 
the  lenght  of  the  Colonel's  stay  in  London,  what  day  he  could 
dine  with  Graham   at  Richmond   or    Gravesend,  the    Colonel 


386 


THE  PARISIANS. 


took  up  the  ball.  "  We  have  been  reckoning  to  see  you  at 
Paris,  sir,  for  the  last  six  months." 

"  I  am  very  much  flattered  to  hear  that  you  have  thought  of 
me  at  all ;  but  I  am  not  aware  of  having  warranted  the  expec- 
tation you  so  kindly  express." 

"  I  guess  you  must  have  said  something  to  my  wife  which 
led  her  to  do  more  than  expect — to  reckon  on  your  return.  And, 
by  the  way,  sir,  I  am  charged  to  deliver  to  you  this  note  from 
her  and  to  back  the  request  it  contains  that  you  will  avail  vour- 
self  of  the  offer.     Without  summarizing  the  points,  I  do  so." 

Graham  glanced  over  the  note  addressed  to  him  : — 

"  Dear  Mr.  Vane, — Do  you  forget  how  beautiful  the  en- 
virons of  Paris  are  in  May  and  June  ?  how  charming  it  was  last 
year  at  the  lake  of  Enghien  ?  how  gay  were  our  little  dinners 
out  of  doors  in  the  garden  arbors,  with  the  Savarins  and  the 
fair  Italian  and  her  incomparably  amusing  chaperon .-'  Frank 
has  my  orders  to  bring  you  back  to  renew  those  happy  days, 
while  the  birds  are  in  their  first  song  and  the  leaves  are  in  their 
youngest  green.  I  have  prepared  your  rooms  chcz  nous — a 
chamber  that  looks  out  on  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  a  quiet 
cabitiet  de  travail  at  the  back,  in  which  you  can  read,  write,  or 
sulk  undisturbed.  Come,  and  we  will  again  visit  Enghien  and 
Montmorency.  Don't  talk  of  engagements.  If  man  proposes, 
woman  disposes.  Hesitate  not — obey.  Your  sincere  little 
friend, 

"  Lizzy." 

"  My  dear  Morley,"  said  Graham,  with  emotion,  "  I  cannot 
find  words  to  thank  your  wife  sufficiently  for  an  invitation  so 
graciously  conveyed.     Alas  !  I  cannot  accept  it." 

"  Why  .?  "  asked  the  Colonel,  dr>ly. 

*'  I  have  too  much  to  do  in  London." 

"  Is  that  the  true  reason,  or  am  I  to  suspicion  that  there  is 
anything,  sir,  which  makes  you  dislike  a  visit  to  Paris .-' " 

The  Americans  enjoy  the  reputation  of  being  the  frankest 
putters  of  questions  whom  liberty  of  speech  has  yet  educated 
into  les  recherches  de  la  verite,  and  certainly  Colonel  Morley  in 
this  instance  did  not  impair  the  national  reputation. 

Graham  Vane's  brow  slightly  contracted,  and  he  bit  his  lip 
as  if  stung  by  a  sudden  pang  ;  but,  after  a  moment's  pause,  he 
answered,  with  a  good-humored  smile — 

"No  man  who  has  taste  enough  to  admire  the  most  beauti- 


THE  PARISIANS.  387 

ful  city  and  appreciate  the  charm  of  the  most  brilliant  society 
n  the  world  can  dislike  Paris." 

'  My  dear  sir,  I  did  not  ask  if  you  disliked  Paris  but  if  there 
were  anything  that  made  you  dislike  coming  back  to  it  on  a 
visit.'' 

"  Wliat  a  notion  !  and  what  a  cross-examiner  you  would 
have  made  if  you  had  been  called  to  the  bar  !  Surely,  my  deai 
friend,  you  can  understand  that  when  a  man  has  in  one  place 
business  which  he  cannot  neglect,  he  may  decline  going  to  an- 
other place,  whatever  pleasure  it  would  give  him  to  do  so.  By 
the  way,  there  is  a  great  ball  at  one  of  the  Minister's  to-night ; 
you  should  go  there,  and  I  will  point  out  to  you  all  those  En- 
glish notabilities  in  whom  Americans  naturally  take  interest.  I 
will  call  for  you  at  eleven  o'clock.  Lord -,  who  is  a  connec- 
tion of  mine,  would  be  charmed  to  know  you." 

Morley  hesitated  ;  but  when  Graham  said,  "  How  your  wife 
will  scold  you  if  you  lose  such  an  opportunity  of  telling  her 

whether  the  Duchess  of  M is  as  beautiful  as  report  says, 

and  whether  Gladstone  or  Disraeli  seems  to  your  phrenological 
science  to  have  the  finer  head  !  "  the  Colonel  gave  in,  and  it 
was  settled  that  Graham  should  call  for  him  at  the  Langham 
Hotel. 

That  matter  arranged,  Graham  probably  hoped  that  his  in- 
quisitive visitor  would  take  leave  for  the  present  ;  but  the 
Colonel  evinced  no  such  intention.  On  the  contrary,  settling 
himself  more  at  ease  in  his  arm-chair,  he  said,  "  If  I  remember 
aright,  you  do  not  object  to  the  odor  of  tobacco  ? " 

Graham  arose  and  presented  to  his  visitor  a  cigar-box  which 
he  took  from  the  mantelpiece. 

The  Colonel  shook  his  head,  and  withdrew  from  his  breast- 
pocket a  leather  case,  from  which  he  extracted  a  gigantic 
regalia ;  this  he  lighted  from  a  gold  match-box  in  the  shape  of 
a  locket  attached  to  his  watch-chain,  and  took  two  or  three  pre- 
liminary puffs  with  his  head  thrown  back  and  his  eyes  medita- 
tively intent  upon  the  ceiling. 

We  know  already  that  strange  whim  of  the  Colonel's  (than 
whom  if  he  so  pleased,  no  man  could  speak  purer  English  as 
spoken  by  the  Britisher)  to  assert  the  dignity  of  the  American 
citizen  by  copious  use  of  expressions  and  phrases  familiar  to  the 
lips  of  the  governing  class  of  the  great  Republic — delicacies  of 
speech  which  he  would  have  carefully  shunned  in  the  polite 
circles  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  in  New  York.  Now,  the  Colonel 
was  much  too  experienced  a  man  of  the  world  not  to  be  aware 
that  the  commission  with  which  his  Lizzy  had  charged  him 


^88  THE  PARISIANS. 

was  an  exceedingly  delicate  one ;  and  it  occurred  to  his  mother 
wit  that  the  best  way  to  acquit  himself  of  it  so  as  to  avoid 
the  risk  of  giving  or  of  receiving  serious  affront  would  be  tc 
push  that  whim  of  his  into  more  than  wonted  exaggeration. 
Thus  he  could  more  decidedly  and  briefly  come  to  the  point, 
and,  should  he  in  doing  so  appear  too  meddlesome,  rather  pro- 
voke a  laugh  than  a  frown — ^retiring  from  the  ground  with  the 
honors  due  to  a  humorist.  Accordingly,  in  his  deepest  nasal 
intonation,  and  withdrawing  his  eyes  from  the  ceiling  he  be- 
gan— 

"  You  have  not  asked,  sir,  after  the  Signorina  or,  as  we 
popularly  call  her,  Mademoiselle  Cicogna." 

"  Have  I  not .''  I  hope  she  is  quite  well,  and  her  lively 
companion,  Signora  Venosta." 

"They  are  not  sick,  sir,  or  at  least  were  not  so  last  night, 
when  my  wife  and  I  had  the  pleasure  to  see  them.  Of  course 
you  have  read  Mademoiselle  Cicogna's  book — -a  bright  perform- 
ance, sir,  age  considered." 

"Certainly  I  have  read  the  book;  it  is  full  of  unquestion- 
able genius.  Is  Mademoiselle  writing  another  t  But  of  course 
she  is." 

"  I  am  not  aware  of  the  fact,  sir.  It  may  be  predicated; 
such  a  mind  cannot  remain  inactive  ;  and  I  know  from  M. 
Savarin  and  that  rising  voung  man  Gustave  Rameau  that  the 
publishers  bid  high  for  her  brains  considerable.  Two  transla- 
tions have  already  appeared  in  our  country.  Her  fame,  sir, 
will  be  world-wide.  She  may  be  another  George  Sand,  or  at 
least  another  Eulalie  Grantmesnil." 

Groham's  cheek  became  as  white  as  the  paper  I  write  on. 
He  inclined  his  head  as  in  assent,  but  without  a  word.  The 
Colonel  continued — 

"  We  ought  to  be  very  proud  of  her  acquaintance,  sir.  I 
think  you  detected  her  gifts  while  they  were  yet  unconjectured. 
My  wife  says  so.  You  must  be  gratified  to  remember  that,  sit 
— clear  grit,  sir,  and  no  mistake." 

"  1  certainly  more  than  once  have  said  to  Mrs.  Morley  thai 
I  esteemed  Mademoiselle's  powers  so  highly  that  I  hoped  she 
would  never  become  a  stage-singer  and  actress.  But  this  M. 
Rameau  ?  You  say  he  is  a  rising  man.  It  struck  me  when  at 
Paris  that  he  was  one  of  those  charlatans  with  a  great  deal 
of  conceit  and  very  little  information,  who  are  always  found  in 
scores  on  the  ultra-Liberal  side  of  politics  ;  possibly  I  was  mis- 
taken." 

"  He  is  the  responsible  editor  of  '  Le  Sens  Comvnui,'  in  which 


THE  PARTSTANS.  389 

talented  periodical  Mademoirselle  Cicogna's  book  was  first 
raised." 

"  Of  course  I  know  that ;  a  journal  wiiich,  so  far  as  I  have 
looked  into  its  political  or  social  articles,  certainly  written  hy  a 
cleverer  and  an  older  man  than  M.  Ranieau,  is  for  unsettling 
all  things  and  settling  nothing.  We  have  writers  of  that  kind 
among  ourselves.  I  have  no  sympathy  with  them.  To  me  i( 
seems  that  when  a  man  says,  '  Off  with  your  head,'  he  ought  to 
let  us  kn-ow  what  other  head  he  would  put  on  our  shoulders,  and 
by  what  process  the  change  of  heads  shall  be  effected,  iffon- 
estly  speaking,  if  you  and  your  charming  wife  are  intimate 
friends  and  admirers  of  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  I  think  you 
could  not  do  her  a  greater  service  than  that  of  detaching  her 
from  all  connection  with  men  like  M.  Rameau  and  journals  like 
Le  Sens  Co/nmun.' " 

The  Colonel  here  withdrew  his  cigar  from  his  lips,  lowered 
his  he-ad  to  a  level  with  Graham's,  and,  relaxing  into  an  arch 
significant  smile,  said.  "  Start  to  Paris,  and  dissuade  her  your- 
self. Start — go  ahead — don't  be  shy — don't  see-saw  on  the 
beam  of  speculation.  You  will  have  more  influence  with  that 
young  female  than  we  can  boast." 

Never  was  England  in  greater  danger  of  quarrel  with  Amer- 
ica than  at  that  moment ;  but  Graham  curbed  his  first  wrathful 
impulse,  and  replied,  coldly — 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Colonel,  that  you,  though  very  uncon- 
sciously, derogate  from  the  respect  due  to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna. 
That  the  counsel  of  a  married  couple  like  yourself  and  Mrs. 
Morley  sliould  be  freely  given  to  and  duly  heeded  by  a  girl  de- 
prived of  her  natural  advisers  in  parents,  is  a  reasonable  and 
honorable  supposition  ;  but  to  imply  that  the  most  influential 
adviser  of  a  young  lady  so  situated  is  a  young  single  man,  in  no 
way  related  to  her,  appears  to  me  a  dereliction  of  that  regard 
to  the  dignity  of  her  sex  which  is  the  chivalrous  characteristic 
of  your  countrymen, — and  to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  herself  a 
sunn  se  which  she  would  be  justified  in  resenting  as  an  impeiti- 
nence." 

"  I  deny  both  allegations,"  replied  the  Colonel,  serenely, 
"  I  maintain  that  a  single  man  whips  all  connubial  creation 
when  it  comes  to  gallantizing  a  single  young  woman  ;  and  that 
no  young  lady  would  be  justified  in  resenting  as  impertinent 
my  friendly  suggestion  to  the  single  man  so  deserving  of  her 
consideration  as  I  estimate  you  to  be,  to  solicit  the  right  to  ad- 
vise her  for  life      And  that's  a  caution." 


3QO  ^-^-^  PARISIANS. 

Here  the  Colonel  resumed  his  regalia,  and  again  gazed  in 
tently  on  the  ceiling. 

"  Ad^  ise  her  for  life !  You  mean,  1  presume,  as  a  candidate 
for  her  hand  ?  " 

"  You  don't  Turkey  now.  Well,  I  guess  you  ire  not  wide 
Ci  the  mark  there,  sir." 

"  You  do  me  infinite  honor,  but  I  do  not  presume  so  far." 

'•  So,  so — not  as  yet.  Before  a  man  who  is  not  without 
gumption  runs  himself  for  Congress,  he  likes  to  calculate  how 
the  votes  will  run.  Well,  sir,  suppose  we  are  in  caucus,  and  let 
us  discuss  the  chances  of  the  election  with  closed  doors. 

Graham  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  persistent  officiousness 
of  his  visitor,  but  his  smile  was  a  very  sad  one. 

"  Pray  change  the  subject,  my  dear  Colonel  Morley — it  is  not 
a  pleasant  one  to  me  ;  and  as  regards  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  can 
you  think  it  would  not  shock  her  to  suppose  that  her  name  was 
dragged  into  the  discussion  you  would  provoke,  even  with  closed 
doors  ? " 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  Colonel,  imperturbably,  "since  the  doors 
are  closed,  there  is  no  one,  unless  it  be  a  spirit-listener  under 
the  table,  who  can  wire  to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  the  substance 
of  debate.  And,  for  my  part,  I  do  not  believe  in  spiritual  man- 
ifestations. Fact  is,  that  I  have  the  most  amicable  sentiments 
towards  both  parties,  and  if  there  is  a  misunderstanding  which 
is  opposed  to  the  union  of  the  States,  I  wish  to  remove  it  while 
yet  in  time.  Now,  let  us  suppose  that  you  decline  to  be  a  can- 
didate ;  there  are  plenty  of  them  who  will  run  ;  and  as  an  elec- 
tor must  choose  one  representative  or  other,  so  a  gal  must 
choose  on£  husband  or  other.  And  then  you  only  repent  when 
it  is  too  late.  It  rs  a  great  thing  to  be  first  in  the  field.  Let  us 
approximate  to  the  point ;  the  chances  seem  good — will  you 
nui  ? — Yes  or  no  ?  " 

"  I  repeat,  Colonel  Morley,  that  I  entertain  no  such  pre- 
sumption." 

The  Colonel  here,  rising,  extended  his  hand,  which  Graham 
shook  with  constrained  cordiality,  and  then  leisurely  walked  to 
the  door ;  there  he  paused,  as  if  struck  by  a  new  thought,  and 
said  gravely,  in  his  natural  tone  of  voice,  "  You  have  nothing  to 
say,  sir,  against  the  young  lady's  character  and  honor  ? " 

"  I  ! — heavens,  no  !  Colonel  Morley,  such  a  question  insults 
me  !  ■' 

The  Colonel  resumed  his  deepest  nasal  bass :  "  It  is  only, 
then,  because  you  don't  fancy  her  now  so  much  as  you  did  last 
vear — ^fact,  you  are  soured  on  her,  and  fly  off  the  handle.    Such 


THE  PARISIANS. 


391 


things  do  happen.  The  same  thing  has  happened  to  myself,  sir. 
In  my  days  of  celibacy,  there  was  agal  at  Saratoga  whom  I  gal- 
lantized,  and  whom,  while  I  was  at  Saratoga,  I  thought  Heaven 
had  made  to  be  Mrs.  Morley.  I  was  on  the  very  point  of  tell- 
ing her  so,  when  I  was  suddenly  called  off  to  Philadelphia;  and 
at  Philadelphia,  sir,  I  found  that  Heaven  had  made  another 
Mrs.  Morley.  I  state  this  fact,  sir,  though  I  seldom  talk  of  my 
own  aflfairs,  even  when  willing  to  tender  my  advice  in  the  affairs 
of  another,  in  order  to  prove  that  I  do  not  intend  to  censure 
you  if  Heaven  has  served  you  in  the  same  manner.  Sir,  a  man 
may  go  blind  for  one  gal  when  he  is  not  yet  dry  behind  the  ears, 
and  then,  when  his  eyes  are  skinned,  go  in  for  one  better.  All 
things  mortal  meet  with  a  change,  as  my  sister's  little  boy  said 
when,  at  the  age  of  eight,  he  quitted  the  Methodys  and  turned 
Shaker.  Threep  and  argue  as  we  may,  you  and  I  are  both  mor- 
tals— more's  the  pity.  Good-morning,  sir  (glancing  at  the  clock, 
which  proclaimed  the  hour  of  3  p.m.), — I  err — good  evening." 

By  the  post  that  day  the  Colonel  transmitted  a  condensed 
and  laconic  report  of  his  conversation  with  Graham  Vane.  I 
can  state  its  substance  in  yet  fewer  words.  He  wrote  word 
that  Graham  positively  declined  the  invitation  to  Paris ;  that 
he  had  then,  agreeably  to  Lizzy's  instructions,  ventilated  the 
?^nglishman,  in  the  most  delicate  terms,  as  to  his  intentions  with 
regard  to  Isaura,  and  that  no  intentions  at  all  existed.  The 
sooner  all  thoughts  of  him  were  relinquished  and  a  new  suitor 
on  the  ground,  the  better  it  would  be  for  the  young  lady's  hap- 
piness in  the  only  stat€  in  which  happiness  should  be,  if  not 
found,  at  least  sought,  whether  maid  or  man. 

Mrs.  Morley  was  extremely  put  out  by  this  untoward  result 
of  the  diplomacy  she  had  intrusted  to  the  Colonel ;  and  when, 
the  next  day,  came  a  very  courteous  letter  from  Graham, 
thanking  her  gratefully  for  the  kindness  of  her  invitation,  and 
expressing  his  regret  briefly,  though  cordially,  at  his  inability 
to  profit  by  it,  without  the  most  distant  illusion  to  the  subject 
which  the  Colonel  had  brought  on  the  tapis^  or  even  requesting 
his  compliments  to  the  Signoras  Venosta  and  Cicogna,  she  was 
more  than  put  out,  more  than  resentful, — she  was  deeply 
grieved.  Being,  however,  one  of  those  gallant  heroes  of  wo- 
markind  who  did  not  give  in  at  the  first  defeat,  she  began  to 
doubt  whether  Frank  had  not  rather  overstrained  the  delicacy 
which  he  said  he  had  put  into  his  "soundings."  He  ought  to 
have  been  more  explicit.  Meanwhile,  she  resolved  to  call  on 
Isaura,  and,  without  mentioning  Graham's  refusal  of  her  invi 
tation,  endeavor  to  ascertain  whether  the  attachment  which  she 


392  THE  PAKISTANS. 

felt  persuaded  the  girl  secretly  cherished  for  this  recalcitrant 
Englishman  were  something  more  than  the  first  romantic  fancy 
— whether  it  were  sufficiently  deep  to  justify  further  effort  on 
Mrs.  Morley's  part  to  bring  it  to  a  prosperous  issue. 

She  found  Isaura  at  home  and  alone  ;  and,  to  do  her  jus- 
tice, she  exhibited  wonderful  tact  in  the  fulfilment  of  the  task 
she  had  set  herself.  Forming  her  judgment  by  manner  and 
look — not  words — she  returned  home  convinced  that  she  ought 
to  seize  the  opportunity  afforded  to  her  by  Graham's  letter.  It 
was  one  to  which  she  might  very  naturally  reply,  and  in  that 
reply  she  might  convey  the  object  at  her  heart  more  felicitous- 
ly than  the  Colonel  had  done.  "  The  cleverest  man  is,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "  stupid  compared  to  an  ordinary  woman  in  the 
real  business  of  life,  which  does  not  consist  of  fighting  and 
money-making." 

Now,  there  was  one  point  she  had  ascertained  by  words  in 
her  visit  to  Isaura — a  point  on  which  all  might  depend.  She 
had  asked  Isaura  when  and  where  she  had  seen  Graham  last, 
and  when  Isaura  had  given  her  that  information,  and  she 
learned  it  was  on  the  eventful  day  on  which  Isaura  gave  her 
consent  to  the  publication  of  her  MS.,  if  approved  by  Savarin, 
in  the  journal  to  be  set  up  by  the  handsome-faced  young  au- 
thor,  she  leaped  to  the  conclusion  that  Graham  had  been  seized 
with  no  unnatural  jealousy,  and  was  still  under  the  illusive 
glamoury  of  the  green-eyed  fiend.  ,She  was  confirmed  in  this 
notion,  not  altogether  an  unsound  one,  when,  asking  with  ap- 
parent carelessness,  "  And  in  that  last  interview  did  you  see 
any  change  in  Mr.  Vane's  manner,  especially  when  he  took 
leave  ?  "  Isaura  turned  away,  pale,  and,  involuntarily  clasping 
her  hands — as  women  do  when  they  would  suppress  pain — re- 
plied, in  a  low  voice,  "  His  manner  was  changed." 

Accordingly,  Mrs.  Morley  sat  down  and  wrote  the  following 
letter : 

"  Dear  Mr.  Vane, — I  am  very  angry  indeed  with  you  for 
refusing  my  invitation, — I  had  so  counted  on  you,  and  I  don't 
believe  a  word  of  your  excuse.  Engagements  I  To  balls  and 
dinners,  I  suppose ;  as  if  you  were  not  much  too  clever  to  care 
about  these  silly  attempts  to  enjoy  solitude  in  crowds.  And  as 
to  what  you  men  call  business,  you  have  no  right  to  have  any 
business  at  all.  You  are  not  in  commerce  ;  you  are  not  in 
Parliament  •  you  told  me  yourself  that  you  had  no  great  landed 
estates  to  give  you  trouble  ;  you  are  rich,  without  any  necessity 
to  take  pains  to  remain  rich  or  to  become  richer ;  you  have  no 


THE  PARISIANS. 


393 


business  in  the  world  except  to  please  yourself  :  and  when  you 
will  not  come  to  Paris  to  see  one  of  your  truest  friends — which 
I  certainly  am — it  simply  means  that,  no  matter  how  such  a 
visit  would  please  me,  it  does  not  please  yourself.  I  call  that 
abominably  rude  and  ungrateful. 

"  But  I  am  not  writing  merely  to  scold  you.  I  have  some- 
thing else  on  my  mind,  and  it  must  come  out.  Certainly,  when 
you  were  at  Paris  last  year  you  did  admire,  above  all  other 
young  ladies,  Isaura  Cicogna.  And  I  honored  you  for  doing 
so.  I  know  no  young  lady  to  be  called  her  equal.  Well,  if 
you  admired  her  then,  what  would  you  do  now  if  you  met  her  ? 
Then  she  was  but  a  girl — very  brilliant,  very  charming,  it  is 
true — but  undeveloped,  untested.  Now  she  is  a  woman,  a 
princess  among  women,  but  retaining  all  that  is  most  lovable  in 
a  girl  ;  so  courted,  yet  so  simple — so  gifted,  yet  so  innocent. 
Her  head  is  not  a  bit  turned  by  all  the  Hattery  that  surrounds 
her.  Come  and  judge  for  yourself.  I  still  hold  the  door  of 
the  rooms  destined  to  you  open  for  repentance. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Vane,  do  not  think  me  a  silly  match-making 
little  woman  when  I  write  to  you  thus  a  coeiir  oiivert. 

"  I  like  you  so  much  that  I  would  fain  secure  to  you  the 
rarest  prize  which  life  is  ever  likely  to  offer  to  your  ambition. 
Where  can  you  hope  to  find  another  Isaura?  Among  the 
stateliest  daughters  of  your  English  dukes,  where  is  there  one 
whom  a  proud  man  would  be  more  proud  to  show  to  the  world, 
saying,  '  She  is  mine  I '  where  one  more  distinguished — I  will 
not  say  by  mere  beauty,  there  she  might  be  eclipsed — but  by 
sweetness  and  dignity  combined — in  aspect,  manner,  every 
mov^ement,  every  smile  ? 

"  And  you,  who  are  yourself  so  clever,  so  well  read — you, 
who  would  be  so  lonely  with  a  wife  who  was  not  your  compan- 
ion, with  whom  you  could  not  converse  on  equal  terms  of  intel- 
lect,— my  dear  friend,  where  could  you  find  a  companion  in 
whom  you  would  not  miss  the  poet-soul  of  Isaura  }  Of  course 
I  should  not  dare  to  obtrude  all  these  questionings  on  your  in- 
nermost rellections  if  1  had  not  some  idea,  right  or  wrong,  that 
since  the  days  when  at  Enghien  and  Montmorency,  seeing  you 
and  Isaura  side  by  side,  I  whispered  to  Frank,  '  So  should 
those  two  be  through  life,'  some  cloud  has  passed  between  your 
eyes  and  the  future  on  which  they  gazed.  Cannot  that  cloud 
be  dispelled  t  Were  you  so  unjust  to  yourself  as  to  be  jealous 
of  a  rival,  perhaps  of  a  Gustave  Rameau  ?  I  write  to  you 
frankly — answer  me  frankly  ;  and  if  you  answer,  '  Mrs.  Morley, 
I  don't  know  what  you  mean  ;  I  admired  Mademoiselle  Cicogna 


394  "J^ffP-    PAKISIAKS. 

as  I  might  admire  any  other  pretty  accomplished  girl,  but  it  is 
really  noihing  to  me  whether  she  marries  Gustave  Rameau  or 
any  one  else,' — why,  then  burn  this  letter — forget  that  it  has 
been  written  ;  and  may  you  never  know  the  pang  of  remorseful 
sigh  if  ,n  the  days  to  come  you  see  her — whose  name  in  that 
case  I  should  profane  did  I  repeat  it — the  comrade  of  another 
man's  mind,  the  half  of  another  man's  heart,  the  pride  and 
delight  of  another  man's  blissful  home." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

There  is  somewhere  in  Lord  Lytton's  writings — writings 
so  numerous  that  I  may  be  pardoned  if  I  cannot  remember 
where — a  critical  definition  of  the  diiTerence  between  dramatic 
and  narrative  art  of  story,  instanced  by  that  marvellous 
passage  in  the  loftiest  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  works  in  which 
all  the  anguish  of  Ravenswood  on  the  night  before  he  has  to 
meet  Lucy's  brother  in  mortal  combat  is  conveyed  without 
the  spoken  words  required  in  tragedy.  It  is  only  to  be  con- 
jectured by  the  tramp  of  his  heavy  boots  to  and  fro  all  the 
night  long  in  his  solitary  chamber,  heard  below  by  his  faithful 
Caleb.  The  drama  could  not  have  allowed  that  treatment; 
the  drama  must  have  put  into  words,  as  "  soliloquy,"  agonies 
which  the  non-dramatic  narrator  knows  that  no  soliloquy  can 
describe.  Humbly  do  I  imitate,  then,  the  great  master  of  nar- 
rative in  declining  to  put  into  words  the  conflict  between  love 
and  reason  that  tortured  the  heart  of  Graham  Vane  when,  drop- 
ping noiselessly  the  letter  I  have  just  described,  he  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands,  and  remained  I  know  not  how  long  in 
the  same  position,  his  head  bowed,  not  a  sound  escaping  from 
his  lips. 

He  did  not  stir  from  his  rooms  that  day;  and  had  there 
been  a  Caleb's  faithful  ear  to  listen,  his  tread,  too,  might  have 
been  hsard  all  that  sleepless  night,  passing  to  an -J  fro,  but 
pausing  oft,  along  his  solitarj'  floors. 

Possibly  love  would  have  borne  down  all  opposing  reason- 
ings, doubts,  and  prejudices,  but  for  incidents  that  occurred 
the  following  evening.  On  that  evening  Graham  dined  en 
/amille  with  his  cousins  the  Altons.  After  dinner,  the  Duke 
produced  the  design  for  a  cenotaph  inscribed  to   the  memory 


THE  PARISIANS.  ^gj 

of  his  Aunt,  Lady  Janet   King,  whicli  he  proposed  to  place  in 
the  family  chapel  at  Alton, 

"  I  know,"  said  the  Duke,  kindly,  "  you  would  wish  the  old 
house  from  which  she  sprang  to  preserve  some  such  record  of 
her  who  loved  you  as  her  son  ;  and,  even  putting  you  out  of  ihe 
question,  it  gratifies  me  to  attest  the  claim  of  our  family  to  a 
daughter  who  continues  to  be  famous  for  her  goodness,  and 
made  that  goodness  so  lovable  that  envy  forgave  it  for  being 
famous.  It  was  a  pang  to  me  when  poor  Richard  King  decided 
on  placing  her  tomb  among  strangers ;  but  in  conceding  his 
rights  as  to  her  resting-place  I  retain  mine  to  her  name, '  Nostris 
Uberis  virtutis  exetnplar  '  " 

Graham  wrung  his  cousin's  hand — he  could  not  speak, 
choked  by  suppressed  tears. 

The  Duchess,  who  loved  and  honored  Lady  Janet  almost 
as  much  as  did  her  husband,  fairly  sobbed  aloud.  She  had 
indeed,  reason  for  grateful  mernories  of  the  deceased  :  there 
had  been  some  obstacles  to  her  marriage  with  the  man  who 
had  won  her  heart,  arising  from  political  differences  and 
family  feuds  between  their  parents,  which  the  gentle  media- 
tion of  Lady  Janet  had  smoothed  away.  And  never  did 
union  founded  on  mutual  and  ardent  love  more  belie  the 
assertions  of  the  great  Bichat  (esteemed  by  Dr.  Buckle  the 
finest  intellect  which  practical  philosophy  had  exhibited  since 
Aristotle)  that  "  Love  is  a  sort  of  fever  which  does  not  last 
beyond  two  years,"  than  that  between  these  eccentric  speci- 
mens of  a  class  denounced  as  frivolous  and  heartless  by 
philosophers,  English  and  French,  who  have  certainly  never 
heard  of  Bichat. 

When  the  emotion  the  Duke  had  exhibited  was  calmed 
down,  his  wife  pushed  towards  Graham  a  sheet  of  paper  in- 
scribed with  the  epitaph  composed  by  his  hand,  "  Is  it  not 
beautiful  ? "  she  said,  falteringly — "  not  a  word  too  much  or 
too  little." 

Graham  read  the  inscription  slowly,  and  with  very  dimmed 
eyes.     It  deserved  the  praise  bestowed  on  it ;  for  the  Duke, 
though  a  shy  and  awkward  speaker,  was  an  incisive  and  grace 
ful  writer. 

Yet  in  his  innermost  self  Graham  shivered  when  he  read 
that  epitaph,  it  expressed  so  emphatically  the  reverential 
nature  of  the  love  which  Lady  Janet  had  inspired — the  genial 
influences  which  the  holiness  of  a  character  so  active  in  doing 
good  had  diffused  around  it.  It  brought  vividly  before  Graham 
that    image    of   perfect   spotless   womanhood.      And   a   voice 


39^ 


THE  PARISIANS. 


within  him  asked,  "  Would  that  cenotaph  be  placed  amid  tlie 
monuments  of  an  illustrious  lineage  if  the  secret  known  to 
thee  could  transpire?  What  though  the  lost  one  were  really 
as  unsullied  by  sin  as  the  world  deems,  would  the  name  new 
treasured  as  an  heirloom  not  be  a  memory  of  gall  and  a  sound 
of  shame  ?  " 

He  remained  so  silent  after  putting  down  the  inscriptior; 
that  the  Duke  said  modestly,  "  My  dear  Graham,  I  see  thai 
you  do  not  like  what  I  have  written.  Your  pen  is  much  more 
practiced  than  mine.  If  I  did  not  ask  you  to  compose  the 
epitaph,  it  was  because  I  thought  it  would  please  you  more  in 
coming,  as  a  spontaneous  tribute  due  to  her,  from  the  rep- 
resentativ^e  of  her  family.  But  will  you  correct  my  sketch,  or 
give  me  another  according  to  your  own  ideas .-'  " 

"  I  see  not  a  word  to  alter,"  said  Graham,  "  Forgive  me 
if  my  silence  wronged  my  emotion  :  the  truest  eloquence  is 
that  which  holds  us  too  mute  ^or  applause." 

"  I  knew  you  would  like  it,  Leopold  is  always  so  disposed 
to  underrate  himself,"  said  the  Duchess,  whose  hand  was 
resting  fondly  on  her  husband's  shoulder.  "  Epitaphs  are  so 
difficult  to  write — especially  epitaphs  on  women,  of  whom  in 
life  the  least  said  the  better,  Janet  was  the  only  woman  I 
ever  knew  whom  one  could  praise  in  safety." 

'•  Well  expressed,"  said  the  Duke,  smiling ;  "  and  I  wish 
you  would  make  that  safety  clear  to  some  lady  friends  of 
yours,  to  whom  it  might  serve  as  a  lesson.  Proof  against 
every  breath  of  scandal  herself,  Janet  King  never  uttered  and 
never  encouraged  one  ill-natured  word  against  another.  But 
I  am  afraid,  my  dear  fellow,  that  I  must  leave  you  to  a  tete-a- 
tete  with  Eleanor.  You  know  that  I  must  be  at  the  House  this 
evening.     I  only  paired  till  half-past  nine." 

"  I  will  walk  down  to  the  House  with  you,  if  you  are  going 
on  foot." 

"  No,"  said  the  Duchess;  "you  must  resign  yourself  to  me 
for  at  least  half  an  hour.  I  was  looking  over  your  aunt's 
letters  to-day,  and  I  found  one  which  I  wish  to  show  you  :  it 
is  all  about  yourself,  and  written  within  the  last  few  months 
of  her  life."  Here  she  put  her  arm  into  Graham's  and  led 
him  'nto  her  own  private  drawing-room,  which,  though  others 
migl- 1  call  it  a  boudoir,  she  dignified  by  the  name  of  her 
study.  The  Duke  remained  for  some  minutes  thoughtfully 
leaning  his  arm  on  the  mantelpiece.  It  was  no  unimportant 
debate  in  the  Lords  that  night,  and  on  a  subject  in  which  he 
took  great  interest,  and  the  details  of  which  he  had  thoroughly 


THE  PARISIANS. 


397 


mastered.  He  had  been  requested  to  speak,  if  only  a  few 
words  ;  for  his  high  character  and  his  reputation  for  good 
sense  gave  weight  to  the  mere  utterance  of  his  opinion.  But, 
tliough  no  one  had  more  moral  courage  in  action,  the  Duke 
had  a  terror  at  the  very  thought  of  addressing  an  audience 
which  made  him  despise  himself. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  muttered,  "  if  Graham  Vane  were  but  in  Pailia- 
ment,  I  could  trust  him  to  say  exactly  what  I  would  rather  be 
swallowed  up  by  an  earthquake  than  stand  up  and  say  for  my- 
self. But  now  he  has  got  money  he  seems  to  think  of  nothing 
but  saving  it." 


CHAPTER  V. 


The  letter  from  Lady  Janet,  which  the  Duchess  took  from 
th<?  desk  and  placed  in  Graham's  hand,  was  in  strange  coinci- 
dence with  the  subject  that  for  the  last  twenty-four  hours 
had  absorbed  his  thoughts  and  tortured  his  heart.  Speaking 
of  him  in  terms  of  affectionate  eulogy,  the  writer  proceeded  to 
confide  her  earnest  wish  that  he  should  no  longer  delay  that 
change  in  life  which,  concen  rating  so  much  that  is  vague  in 
the  desires  and  aspirations  c  f  man,  leaves  his  heart  and  his 
mind,  made  serene  by  the  contentment  of  home,  free  for  the 
steadfast  consolidation  of  their  warmth  and  their  light  upon  the 
ennobling  duties  that  unite  the  individual  to  his  race. 

" There  is  no  one,"  wrote  Lady  Janet,  "whose  character 
and  career  a  felicitous  choice  in  marriage  can  have  greater  in- 
fluence over  than  this  dear  adopted  son  of  mine.  I  do  not  feat 
that  in  any  case  he  will  be  liable  to  the  errors  of  his  brilliant 
father.  His  early  reverse  of  fortune  here  seems  to  me  one  of 
those  blessings  which  Heaven  conceals  in  the  form  of  afifliction. 
For  in  youth,  the  genial  freshness  of  his  gay  animal  spirits,  a 
native  generosity  mingled  with  desire  of  display  and  thirst  for 
applause,  made  me  somewhat  alarmed  for  his  future.  But, 
though  he  still  retains  these  attributes  of  character,  they  are  no 
longer  predominant ;  they  are  modified  and  chastened.  He  has 
learned  prudence.  But  what  I  now  fear  most  for  him  is  that 
which  he  does  not  show  in  the  world,  which  neither  Leopold 
nor  you  seem  to  detect, — it  is  an  exceeding  sensitiveness  of 
pride.     1  know  not  how  else  to  describe  it.     It   is   so   inter- 


398  THE  PARISIANS. 

woven  with  the  highest  qualities  that  I  sometimes  dread  injury 
to  them  could  it  be  torn  away  from  the  faultier  ones  which  it 
supports. 

•*  It  is  interwoven  with  that  lofty  independence  of  spirit 
which  has  made  him  refuse  openings  the  most  alluring  to  his 
ambition  ;  it  communicates  a  touching  grandeur  to  his  self-deny- 
ing thrift;  it  makes  him  so  tenacious  of  his  word  once  given, 
so  cautious  before  he  gives  it.  Public  life  to  him  is  essential; 
without  it  he  would  be  incomplete  ;  and  yet  I  sigh  to  think  that 
whatever  success  he  may  achieve  in  it  will  be  attended  widi 
proportionate  pain.  Calumny  goes  side  by  side  with  fame, 
and  courting  fame  as  a  man,  he  is  as  thin-skinned  to  calumny 
as  a  woman. 

_"  The  wife  for  Graham  should  have  qualities  not,  taken  in- 
dividually, uncommon  in  English  wives,  but  in  combination 
somewhat  rare. 

"  She  must  have  mind  enough  to  appreciate  his — not  to 
clash  with  it.  She  must  be  fitted  with  sympathies  to  be  his 
dearest  companion,  his  confidante  in  the  hopes  and  fears  which 
the  slightest  want  of  S3mpathy  would  make  him  keep  ever  after- 
wards pent  within  his  breast.  In  herself  worthy  of  distinction, 
she  must  merge  all  distinction  in  his.  You  have  met  in  the 
world  men,  who,  marrying  professed  beauties  or  professed 
literary  geniuses,  are  spoken  of   as  the    husband    of   beautilul 

Mrs.  A or  clever   Mrs.    B :   can   you    fancy   Graham 

Vane  in  the  reflected  light  of  on  i  of  those  husbands  ?  I  trem- 
bled last  year  when  I  thought  he  was  attracted  by  a  face  which 
the  artists  raved  about,  and  again  by  a  tongue  which  dropped 
bans  mots  that  went  the  rounds  of  the  clubs.  I  was  relieved 
when,  sounding  him,  he  said  laughingly,  '  No  dear  aunt,  I  should 
be  one  sore  from  head  to  foot  if  I  married  a  wife  that  was 
talked  about  for  anything  but  goodness.' 

"  No, — Granam  Vane  will  have  pains  sharp  enough  if  he 
live  to  be  tafked  about  himself.  But  that  tenderest  half  of 
himself,  the  bearer  of  the  name  he  would  make,  and  for  the 
dignity  of  which  he  alone  would  be  responsible, — if  that  were 
the  town  talk,  he  would  curse  the  hour  he  gave  any  one  the 
right  to  take  on  herself  his  man's  burden  of  calumny  and  fame. 
1  know  not  which  I  should  pity  the  most,  Graham  Vane  or  his 
wife, 

"  Do  you  understand  me,  dearest  Eleanor  ?  No  doubt  you 
do  so  far,  that  you  comprehend  that  the  women  whom  men 
most  admire  are  not  the  women  we,  as  women  ourselves,  would 
wish  our  sons  or  brothers  to  marry.     But  perhaps  you  do  not 


THE  PARISIANS.  '  3^^ 

comprehend  my  cause  of  fear,  which  is  this — for  in  such 
matters  men  do  not  see  as  we  women  do^-Graham  al^hors, 
in  the  girls  of  our  time,  frivolity  and  insipidity.  Very  rightly, 
you  will  say.  True  ;  but  then  he  is  too  likely  to  be  allured  by 
contrasts.  I  have  seen  him  attracted  by  the  very  girls  we  re- 
coil from  more  than  we  do  from  those  we  allow  to  be  frivolous 
and  insipid,  I  accused  him  of  admiration  for  a  certain  young 
lady  whom  we  call  '  odious',  and  whom  the  slang  that  has  come 
into  vogue  calls  '  fast'  ;  and  I  was  not  satisfied  with  his  answer 
— '  Certainly  I  admire  her  ;  she  is  not  a  doll — she  has  ideas.' 
I  would  rather  of  the  two  see  Graham  married  to  what  men 
call  a  doll,  than  a  girl  with  ideas  which  are  distasteful  to 
women." 

Lady  Janet  then  went  on  to  question  the  Duchess  about 
a  Miss  Asterisk,  with  whom  this  tale  will  have  nothing  to  do, 
but  who,  from  the  little  which  Lady  Janet  had  seen  of  her, 
might  possess  all  the  requisites  that  fastidious  correspondent 
would  exact  for  the  wife  of  her  adopted  son. 

This  Miss  Asterisk  had  been  introduced  into  the  London 
world  by  the  Uuchess.  The  Duchess  had  replied  to  Lady 
Janet  that,  if  earth  could  be  ransacked,  a  more  suitable  wife 
for  Graham  Vane  than  Miss  Asterisk  could  not  be  found  ;  she 
was  well  born — an  heiress  ;  the  estates   she   inherited  were   in 

the  county  of (viz.,  the  county  in  which  the  ancestors  of 

D'Altons  and  Vanes  had  for  centuries  established  their  where- 
about). Miss  Asterisk  was  pretty  enough  to  please  any  man's 
eye,  but  not  with  the  beauty  of  which  artists  rave  ;  well-informed 
enough  to  be  the  companion  to  a  well-informed  man,  but  cer- 
tainly not  witty  enough  to  supply  bons  mots  to  the  clubs.  Miss 
Asterisk  was  one  of  those  women  of  whom  a  husband  might 
feel  proud,  yet  with  whom  a  husband  would  be  safe  from  be- 
ing talked  about. 

And  in  submitting  the  letter  we  have  read  to  Graham's  eye, 
the  Duchess  had  the  cause  of  Miss  Asterisk  pointedly  in  view. 
Miss  Asterisk  had  confided  to  her  friend,  that,  of  all  men  she 
had  seen,  Mr.  Graham  Vane  was  the  one  she  would  feel  the 
least  inclined  to  refuse. 

So  when  Graham  Vane  returned  the  letter  to  the  Duchess, 
simply  saying,  "  How  well  my  dear  aunt  divined  what  is  weakest 
in  me  !  "  the  Duchess  replied  quickly,  "  Miss  Asterisk  dines  here 
to-morrow ;  prav  come  :  you  would  like  her  if  you  knew  more 
of  her." 

"  To-morrow  I  am  engaged — an  American  friend  of  mine 
dines  with  me  ;  but  'tis  no  matter,  for  I  shall  never  feel  more 
for  Miss  Asterisk  than  I  feel  for  Mont  Blanc." 


4.00  THE  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

On  leaving  his  cousin's  house,  Graham  walked  on,  he  scarce 
knew  or  cared  whither,  the  image  of  the  belcve  i  dead  so  for- 
cibly recalled  the  solemnity  of  the  mission  wi'h  which  he  had 
been  intrusted,  and  which  hitherto  he  had  failed  to  fulfil. 
What  if  the  only  mode  by  which  he  could,  without  causing 
questions  and  suspicions  that  might  result  in  dragging  to  day 
the  terrible  nature  of  the  trust  he  held,  enrich  the  daughter  of 
Richard  King,  repair  all  wrong  hitherto  done  to  her,  and  guard 
the  sanctity  of  Lady  Janet's  home,  should  be  in  that  union 
which  Richard  King  had  commended  to  him  while  his  heart 
was  yet  free  ? 

In  such  a  case,  would  not  gratitude  to  the  dead,  duty  to  the 
living,  make  that  union  imperative  at  whatever  sacrifice  of  hap- 
piness to  himself  ?  The  two  years  to  which  Richard  King  had 
limited  the  suspense  of  research  were  not  yet  expired.  Then,  too, 
that  letter  of  Lady  Janet's — so  tenderly  anxious  for  his  future,  so 
clear-sighted  as  to  the  elements  of  his  own  character  in  its 
strength  and  its  infirmities — combined  with  graver  causes  to 
withhold  his  heart  from  its  yearning  impulse,  and — no,  not  steel 
it  against  Isaura,  but  forbid  it  to  realize,  in  the  fair  creature 
and  creator  of  romance,  his  ideal  of  the  woman  to  whom  an 
earnest,  sagacious,  aspiring  man  commits  all  the  destinies  in- 
volved in  the  serene  dignity  of  his  hearth.  He  could  not  but 
own  that  this  gifted  author — this  eager  seeker  after  fame — this 
brilliant  and  bold  competitor  with  men  on  their  own  stormy 
battle-ground — was  the  very  person  from  whom  Lady  Janet 
would  have  warned  away  his  choice.  She  (Isaura)  merge  her 
own  distinction  in  a  husband's  ! — she  leave  exclusively  to  him 
the  burden  of  fame  and  calumny  ! — she  shun  "  to  be  talked 
about  "  ! — she,  who  could  feel  her  life  to  be  a  success  or  a 
failure,  according;  to  the  extent  and  the  loudness  of  the  talk 
which  it  courted  ! 

While  those  thoughts  racked  his  mind,  a  kindly  hand  was 
laid  on  his  arm,  and  a  cheer}'  voice  accosted  him.  "  Well  met, 
my  dear  Vane  !  I  see  we  are  bound  to  the  same  place.  There 
will  be  a  good  gathering  to-night. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Bevil  1  I  am  going  nowhere,  except 
to  my  own  quiet  rooms." 


THE  PARISIANS. 


401 


"  Pooh  !  come  in  here,  at  least  for  a  few  minutes."  And 
Bevil  drew  him  up  the  doorstep  of  a  house  close  by,  where,  on 
certain  evenings,  a  well-known  club  drew  together  men  wlio 
seldom  met  so  familiarly  elsewhere — men  of  all  callings  ;  a  club 
especially  favored  by  wits,  authors,  and  \\\^  flaneurs  of  polite 
society. 

Gf-alkim  shook  his  hand,  about  to  refuse,  when  Bevil  added, 
"  I  l.ave  just  come  from  Paris,  and  can  give  you  the  last  news. 
l^.k;rary,  political,  and  social.  By  the  way,  I  saw  Savarin  the 
other  night  at  the  Cicogna's — he  introduced  me  there."  Graham 
winced  ;  he  was  spelled  by  tl>e  music  of  a  name,  and  foltowed 
his  acquaintance  into  the  crowded  room,  and,  after  returning 
many  greetings  and  nods,  withdrew  into  a  remote  corner  and 
motioned  Bevil  to  a  seat  beside  him. 

"  So  you  met  Savarin  } — Where,  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  At  the  house  of  the  new  lady  author — I  hate  the  word 
authoress  ! — Mademoiselle  Cicogna.  Of  course  you  have  read 
her  book  .''  " 

"  Yes." 

'■'  Full  of  fine  things,  is  it  not  i* — though  somewhat  highflown 
and  sentimental :  however,  nothing  succeeds  like  success.  No 
book  has  been  more  talked  about  at  Paris  ;  the  only  thing  more 
talked  about  is  the  lady  author  herself." 

"  Indeed  !  and  how  }  " 

'■'  She  doesn't  look  twenty,  a  mere  girl — of  that  kind  of 
beauty  which  so  arrests  the  eye  that  you  pass  by  other  faces  to 
gaze  on  it,  and  the  dullest  stranger  would  ask,  '  Who  and  what 
is  she  .? '  A  girl, I  say,  like  that — who  lives  as  independently  as 
if  she  were  a  middle-aged  widow,  receives  ever}'  week  (she  has 
her  Thursdays),  with  no  other  chaperon  than  an  old  ci-devant 
Italian  singing-woman  dressed  like  a  guy — must  set  Parisian 
tougues  into  play,  even  if  she  had  not  written  the  crack  book 
of  the-  season." 

"  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  receives  on  Thursdays, — no  harm 
in  that ;  and  if  she  have  no  other  chaperon  than  the  Italian 
lady  you  mention,  it  is  because  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  is  an 
orphan,  and  having  a  fortune,  such  as  it  is,  of  her  own,  I  do 
not  see  why  she  should  not  live  as  independently  as  many  an 
unmarried  woman  in  London  placed  under  similar  circum- 
stances. I  suppose  she  receives  chiefly  persons  in  the  literary 
or  artistic  world ;  and  if  they  are  all  as  respectable  as  the 
Savarins,  I  do  not  think  ill-nature  itself  could  find  fault  with 
her  social  circle." 

"  Ah  !  you  know  the  Cicogna,  I  presume.     I  am  sure  I  did 


402  THE  PARISIAN'S. 

not  wish  to  say  anything  that  could  offend  her  best  friends  ', 
only -I  do  think  it  is  a  pity  she  is  not  married, — poor  girl  !  " 

"  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  accomplished,  beautiful,  of  good 
birth  (the  Cicognas  rank  among  the  oldest  of  Lombard  fami- 
lies), is  not  likely  to  want  offers." 

"  Offers  of  marriage. — h'm — well,  I  daresay,  from  authors 
and  artists.  You  know  Paris  better  even  than  I  do :  but  I 
don't  suppose  authors  and  artists  there  make  the  most  desir- 
able husbands ;  and  I  scarcely  know  a  marriage  in  France  be- 
tween a  man  author  and  a  lady  author  which  does  not  end  in 
the  de.idliest  of  all  animosities — that  of  wounded  amour-propre. 
Perhaps  the  man  admires  his  own  genius  too  much  to  do  proper 
homage  to  his  wife's." 

"  But  the  choice  of  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  need  not  be  re- 
stricted to  the  pale  of  authorship.  Doubtless  she  has  many  ad- 
mirers beyond  that  quarrelsome  border-land." 

"  Certainly — countless  adorers.  Enguerrand  de  Vandemar 
— you  know  that  diamond  of  dandies  ?  " 

"  Perfectly.     Is  he  an  admirer  ?  " 

"  Cela  va  sans  dire — he  told  me  that,  though  she  was  not 
the  handsomest  woman  in  Paris,  all  other  women  looked  less 
handsome  since  he  had  seen  her.  But  of  course  French  lady- 
killers  like  Enguerrand,  when  it  comes  to  marriage,  leave  it  to 
their  parents  to  choose  their  wives  and  arrange  the  terms  of 
the  contract.  Talking  of  lady-killers,  I  beheld  amid  the  throng 
at  Mademoiselle  Cicogna's  the  ci-devant  Lovelace  whom  I  re- 
member some  twenty-three  years  ago  as  the  darling  of  wives  and 
the  terror  of  husbands — Victor  de  Mauldon." 

"  Victor  de  Mauldon  at  Mademoiselle  Cicogna's  ! — what !  is 
that  man  restored  to  society  ?  " 

"  Ah !  you  are  thinking  of  the  ugly  old  story  about  the 
jewels.  Oh,  yes,  he  has  got  over  that ;  all  his  grand  relations, 
the  Vandemars,  Beauvilliers,  Rochebriant,  and  others,  took 
him  by  the  hand  when  he  reappeared  at  Paris  last  year ;  and, 
though  I  believe  he  is  still  avoided  by  many,  he  is  courted  by 
still  more — and  avoided,  I  fancy,  rather  from  political  than 
social  causes.  The  Imperialist  set,  of  course,  execrate  and, 
proscribe  him.  Ymi  know  he  is  the  writer  of  those  biting 
articles  signed  'Pierre  Firmin'  in  the  ^^  Sens  Commun;'  and  I 
am  told  he  is  the  proprietor  of  that  very  clever  journal,  which 
has  become  a  power," 

"  So  so — that  is  the  journal  in  which  Mademoiselle  Cicogna's 
roman  first  appeared.  So  so — Victor  de  Mauldon  one  of  her 
associates,  her  counsellor  and  friend, — ah  I  " 


THE  PARISIANS.  403 

"  No,  I  didn't  say  that;  on  the  contrar}',  he  was  presented 
to  her  for  the  first  time  the  evening  I  was  at  the  house.  I  saw 
that  young  silk-haired  coxcomb,  Gustave  Rameau,  introduce 
him  to  her.  You  don't  perhaps  know  Rameau,  editor  of  the 
'  Sens  Commun' — writes  poems  and  criticisms.  They  say  he  is 
a  Red  Republican  ;  but  De  Maule'on  keeps  truculent  French 
politics  subdued  if  not  suppressed  in  his  cynical  journal. 
Somebody  told  me  that  the  Cicogna  is  very  much  in  love  with 
Rameau ;  certainly  he  has  a  handsome  face  of  his  own,  and 
that  is  the  reason  why  she  was  so  rude  to  the  Russian 
Prince  X " 

"  How  rude  ?     Did  the  Prince  propose  to  her .?  " 

"  Propose  !  you  forget — he  is  married.  Don't  you  know 
the  Princess  ?  Still,  there  are  other  kinds  of  proposals  than 
those  of  marriage  which  a  rich  Russian  prince  may  venture  to 
make  to  a  pretty  novelist  brought  up  for  the  stage." 

"  Bevil !  "  cried  Graham,  grasping  the  man's  arm  fiercely, 
"  how  dare  you  ?  " 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  Bevil,  very  much  astonished,  "  I  really 
did  not  know  that  your  interest  in  the  young  lady  was  so  great. 
If  I  have  wounded  you  in  relating  a  mere  on  dit  picked  up  at 
the  Jockey  Club,  I  beg  you  a  thousand  pardons.  I  daresay 
there  was  not  a  word  of  truth  in  it." 

"  Not  a  word  of  truth,  you  may  be  sure,  if  the  on  dit  was 
injurious  to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna.  It  is  true,  I  have  a  strong 
interest  in  her;  any  man — any  gentleman — would  have  such 
interest  in  a  girl  so  brilliant  and  seemingly  so  friendless.  It 
shames  one  of  human  nature  to  think  that  the  reward  which  the 
world  makes  to  those  who  elevate  its  platitudes,  brighten  its 
dulness,  delight  its  leisure,  is — Slander  !  I  have  had  the  honor 
to  make  the  acquaintance  of  this  lady  before  she  became  a 
'  celebrity,'  and  I  have  never  met  in  my  path  through  life  a 
purer  heart  or  a  nobler  nature.  What  is  the  wretched  on  dit 
you  condescend  to  circulate  ?     Permit  me  to  add, — 

*  He  who  repeats  a  slander  shares  the  crime.'  " 

"Upon  my  honor,  my  dear  Vane,"  said  Bevil,  seriously  (he 
did  not  want  for  spirit),  "  I  hardly  know  you  this  evening.  It 
is  not  because  dueling  is  out  of  fashion  that  a  man  should  allow 
himself  to  speak  in  a  tone  that  gives  ofifence  to  another  who  in- 
tended none  ;  and  if  dueling  is  out  of  fashion  in  England,  it  is 
still  possible  in  France.  Entre  nous,  I  would  rather  cross  the 
Channel  with  you  than  submit  to  language  that  conveys  unmeri- 
ted insult." 


404  THE  PARISIANS. 

Graham's  cheek,  before  ashen  pale,  flushed  into  dark  red. 
"  I  understand  you,"  he  said  quietly,  "  and  will  be  at  Uoulogne 
to-morrow." 

"Graham  Vane,"  replied  Bevil,  with  much  dignity,  "you 
and  I  have  known  each  other  a  great  many  years,  and  neither 
of  us  has  cause  to  question  the  courage  of  the  other;  but  I  am 
much  older  than  yourself — permit  me  to  take  the  melancholy 
advantage  of  seniority.  A  duel  between  us  in  consequence  of 
careless  words  said  about  a  lady  in  no  way  connected  with 
either  would  be  a  cruel  injury  to  her;  a  duel  on  grounds  so 
slight  would  little  injure  me — a  man  about  town,  who  would  not 
sit  an  hour  in  the  House  of  Commons  if  you  paid  him  a  thou- 
sand pounds  a  minute.  But  you,  Graham  Vane — you  whose 
destiny  it  is  to  canvass  electors  and  make  laws — would  it  not  be 
an  injury  to  you  to  be  questioned  at  the  hustings  why  you 
broke  the  law  and  why  you  sought  another  man's  life  ?  Come, 
come  !  shake  hands,  and  consider  all  that  seconds,  if  we  chose 
them,  would  exact,  is  said,  every  affront  on  either  side  re- 
tracted, every  apology  on  either  side  made." 

"  Bevil,  you  disarm  and  conquer  me,  I  spoke  like  a  hot- 
headed fool ;  forget  it — forgive.  But — but — 1  can  listen  calmly 
now — what  is  that  on  dlt  V 

"  One  that  thoroughly  bears  out  your  own  very  manly  up- 
holding of  the  poor  young  orphan,  whose  name  I  shall  never 
again  mention  without  such  respect  as  would  satisfy  her  most 

sensitive   champion.      It   was    said    that    the    Prince  X 

boasted  that  before  a  week  was  out  Mademoiselle  Cicogna 
should  appear  in  his  carriage  at  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and 
wear  at  the  opera  diamonds  he  had  sent  to  her  ;  that  this 
boast  was  enforced  by  a  wager,  and  the  terms  of  the  wagei 
compelled  the  Prince  to  confess  the  means  he  had  taken  to 
succeed,  and  produced  the  evidence  that  he  had  lost  or  won. 
According  to  this  on  dit,  the  Prince  had  written  to  Mademoi- 
selle Cicogna,  and  the  letter  had  been  accompanied  by  a 
pariire  that  cost  him  half  a  million  of  francs  ;  but  the  dia- 
monds had  been  sent  back,  with  a  few  words  of  such  scorn 
as  a  queen  might  address  to  an  upstart  lackey.  But,  my  dear 
Vane,  it  is  a  mournful  position  for  a  girl  to  receive  such 
offers;  and  you  must  agree  with  me  in  wishing  she  were 
safely  married,  even  to  Monsieur  Rameau  coxcomb  though 
he  be.  Let  us  hope  that  they  will  be  an  exception  to  French 
authors,  male  and  female,  in  general,  and  live  like  turtle- 
doves." 


THE  PARFSIAXS.  ^qt 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  FEW  days  after  the  date  of  the  last  chapter,  Colonel  IMor' 
ley  returned  to  Paris,  He  had  dined  with  Graham  at  G.een. 
wich,  had  met  him  afterwards  in  society,  ar.d  paid  him  a 
farewell  visit  on  the  day  before  the  Colonel's  departure  ;  but 
the  name  of  Isaura  Cicogna  had  not  again  been  uttered  by 
either.  Morley  was  surprised  that  his  wife  did  not  question 
him  minutely  as  to  the  mode  in  which  he  had  executed  her 
delicate  commission,  and  the  manner  as  well  as  words  with 
which  Graham  had  replied  to  h's  "ventilations."  But  his 
Lizzy  cut  him  short  when  he  began  his  recital — 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  anything  more  about  the  man.  He 
has  thrown  away  a  prize  richer  than  his  ambition  will  ever 
gain,  even  if  it  gained  him  a  throne.'' 

"  That  it  can't  gain  him  in  the  old  country.  The  people 
are  loyal  to  the  present  dynasty,  whatever  you  may  be  told  to 
the  contrary." 

"  Don't  be  so  horribly  literal,  Frank  ;  that  subject  is  done 
with.     How  was  the  Duchess  of  M dressed  ?  " 

But  when  the  Colonel  had  retired  to  what  the  French  called 
the  cabinet  de  travail —  and  which  he  more  accurately  termed 
his  "  smoke-den  " — and  there  indulged  m  the  cigar,  which,  de- 
spite his  American  citizenship,  was  forbidden  in  the  drawing- 
room  of  the  tyrant  who  ruled  his  life,  Mrs.  Morley  took  from 
her  desk  a  letter  received  three  days  before,  and  brooded  over 
it  intently,  studying  every  word.  When  she  had  thus  re- 
perused  it,  her  tears  fell  upon  the  page.  "  Poor  Isaura  ! "  she 
muttered — "  poor  Isaura  !  I  know  she  loves  him — and  how 
deeply  a  nature  like  hers  can  love  !  But  I  must  break  it  to 
her.  If  I  did  not,  she  would  remain  nursing  a  vain  dream, 
and  refuse  every  chance  of  real  happiness  for  the  sake  of 
nursing  it."  Then  she  mechanically  folded  up  the  letter — I 
need  not  say  it  was  from  Graham  Vane — restored  it  to  the 
desk,  and  remained  musing  till  the  Colonel  looked  in  at  the  dooi 
and  said  peremptorily,  "  Very  late — come  to  bed." 

The  next  day  Madame  Savarin  called  on  Isaura. 

"  Chere  enfant,'"    said   she,    "  I    have   bad   news   for   you. 


4o(\ 


TIJF.   rARfSfAXS. 


Poor  Gustave  is  very    ill — an   attack    of  the  lungs,  and    fever 
vou  know  how  delicate  he  is." 

"  I  am  sincerely  grieved,"  said  Isaura,  in  earnest  tendei 
rones.  "It  must  be  a  very  sudden  attack:  he  was  here  last 
Tluusday." 

"  The  malady  only  declared  itself  yesterday  morning ;  but 
surely  you  must  have  observed  how  ill  he  has  been  looking  for 
several  days  past.     It  pained  me  to  see  him." 

"  I  did  not  notice  any  change  in  him,"  said  Isaura,  somewhat 
conscience-stricken.  Wrapt  in  her  own  happy  thoughts,  she 
would  not  have  noticed  change  in  faces  yet  more  familiar  to 
her  than  that  of  her  young  admirer. 

"  Isaura,"  said  Madame  Savarin,  "  I  suspect  there  are  moral 
causes  for  our  friend's  failing  health.  Why  should  I  disguise 
my  meaning  ?  You  know  well  how  madly  he  is  in  love  with 
you  ;  and  have  you  denied  him  hope  ?  " 

"  I  like  M.  Rameau  as  a  friend  ;  I  admire  him — at  times  I 
pity  him." 

"  Pity  is  akin  to  love." 

"  I  doubt  the  truth  of  that  saying,  at  all  events  as  you  apply 
it  now.  I  could  not  love  M.  Rameau  ;  I  never  gave  him  cause 
to  think  I  could." 

"  I  wish  for  both  your  sakes  that  you  could  make  me  a 
different  answer;  for  his  sake,  because,  knowing  his  faults 
and  failings,  I  am  persuaded  that  they  would  vanish  in  a  com- 
panionship so  pure,  so  elevating  as  yours  :  you  could  make  him 
not  only  so  much  happier  but  so  much  better  a  man.  Hush  ! 
let  me  go  on,  let  me  come  to  yourself, — I  say  for  your  sake  I 
wish  it.  Your  pursuits,  your  ambition,  are  akin  to  his ;  you 
should  not  marry  one  who  could  not  sympathize  with  you  in 
these.  If  you  did,  he  might  either  restrict  the  exercise  of 
your  genius  or  be  chafed  at  its  display.  The  only  authoress 
I  ever  knew  whose  marriage  lot  was  serenely  happy  to  the  last 
was  the  greatest  of  English  poetesses  married  to  a  great  Eng- 
lish poet.  You  cannot,  you  ought  not  to  devote  yourself  to 
the  splendid  career  to  which  your  genius  irresistibly  impels 
you,  without  that  counsel,  that  support,  that  protection,  which 
a  hrsband  alone  can  give.  My  dear  child,  as  the  wife  myself 
of  a  man  of  letters,  and  familiarized  to  all  the  gossip,  all  the 
scandal,  to  which  they  who  give  their  names  to  the  public  are 
exposed,  I  declare  that,  if  I  had  a  daughter  who  inherited  Sav- 
arin's  talents  and  was  ambitious  of  attaining  to  his  renown,  I 
would  rather  shut  her  up  in  a  convent  than  let  her  publish  a 
book   that  was  in  every  one's   hands   until  she   had  sheltered 


THE  PARISIANS.  407 

her  name  under  that  of  a  husband ;  and  if  I  say  this  of  my 
child,  with  a  father  so  wise  in  the  world's  ways  and  so  popu- 
larly respected  as  my  bon  homme,  what  must  I  feel  to  be  es- 
sential to  your  safety,  poor  stranger  in  our  land !  poor  solitary 
orphan  !  with  no  other  advice  or  guardian  than  the  singing- 
mistress  whom  you  touchingly  call  '  Aladre'  1  I  see  how  I 
distress  and  pain  you — I  cannot  help  it.  Listen.  The  other 
evening  Savarin  came  back  from  his  favorite  cafe  in  a  state  of 
excitement  that  made  me  think  he  came  to  announce  a  revo- 
lution. It  was  about  you ;  he  stormed,  he  wept — actually 
wept — my  philosophical  laughing  Savarin.  He  had  just  heard 
of  that  atrocious  wager  made  by  a  Russian  barbarian.  Every 
one  praised  you  for  the  contempt  with  which  you  had  treated 
the  savage's  insolence.  But  that  you  should  have  been  sub- 
mitted to  sucli  an  insult  without  one  male  friend  who  had  the 
right  to  resent  and  chastise  it — you  cannot  think  how  Savarin 
was  chafed  and  galled.  You  know  how  he  admires,  but  you  can- 
not guess  how  he  reveres  you  ;  and  since  then  he  says  to  me 
every  day,  '  That  girl  must  not  remain  single.  Better  marry 
any  man  who  has  a  heart  to  defend  a  wife's  honor  and  the 
nerve  to  fire  a  pistol :  every  Frenchman  has  those  qualifica- 
tions ! '  " 

Here  Isaura  could  no  longer  restrain  her  emotions  ;  she  burst 
into  sobs  so  vehement,  so  convulsive,  that  Madame  Savarin  be- 
came alarmed  ;  but  when  she  attempted  to  embrace  and  soothe 
her,  Isaura  recoiled  with  a  visible  shudder,  and  gasping  out, 
"  Cruel !  "  turned  to  the  door,  and  rushed  to  her  own  room. 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  a  maid  entered  the  salon  with  a 
message  to  Madame  Savarin  that  Mademoiselle  was  so  unwell 
that  she  must  beg  Madame  to  excuse  her  return  to  the  salon. 

Later  in  the  day  Mrs.  Morley  called,  but  Isaura  would  not 
see  her. 

Meanwhile  poor  Rameau  was  stretched  on  his  sickbed,  and 
in  sharp  struggle  between  life  and  death.  It  is  difficult  to  dis- 
entangle, one  by  one,  all  the  threads  in  a  nature  so  complex  as 
Rameau's ;  but,  if  we  may  hazard  s.  conjecture,  the  grief  of  dis- 
appointed love  was  not  the  immediate  cause  of  his  illness,  and 
yet  it  had  much  to  do  with  it.  The  goad  of  Isaura's  refusal 
had  driven  him  into  seeking  distraction  in  excesses  which  a 
stronger  frame  could  not  have  courted  with  impunity.  The  man 
was  thoroughly  Parisian  in  many  things,  but  especially  in  im- 
patience of  any  trouble.  Did  love  trouble  him — love  could  be 
drowned  in  absinthe ;  and  too  much  absinthe  may  be  a  more  im- 


40»  THE  rARTSfAXS. 

mediate  cause   of  congested  lungs  than  the  love  which  the  ab- 
sinthe has  lulled  to  sleep. 

His  bedside  was  not  watched  by  hirelings.  When  tirst 
taken  thus  ill — too  ill  to  attend  to  his  editorial  duties —  infor 
mation  was  conveyed  to  the  publisher  of  the  "  Sens  Cofntnun,'- 
and.  in  consequence  of  that  information,  Victor  de  Mauleon 
came  to  see  the  sick  man.  By  his  bed  he  found  Savarin,  who 
had  called,  as  it  were  by  chance,  and  seen  the  doctor,  who  had 
said,  "  It  is  grave.     He  must  be  well  nursed." 

Savarin  whispered  to  De  MauMon,  "  Shall  we  call  in  a  pro- 
fessional nurse,  or  a  sceur  de  charite  ?  " 

De  Maule'on  replied,  also  in  whisper,  "  Somebody  told  me 
that  the  man  had  a  mother." 

It  was  true  :  Savarin  had  forgotten  it.  Rameau  never  men- 
tioned his  parents — he  was  not  proud  of  them. 

They  belonged  to  a  lower  class  of  the  bourgeoisie,  retired 
shopkeepers,  and  a  red  Republican  is  sworn  to  hate  of  the 
bourgeoisie,  high  or  low ;  while  a  young  author  pushing  his  way 
into  the  Chausse'e  d'  Antin  does  not  proclaim  to  the  world  that 
his  parents  had  sold  hosiery  in  the  Rue  St.  Denis. 

Nevertheless  Savarin  knew  that  Rameau  had  such  parents 
still  living,  and  took  the  hint.  Two  hours  afterwards  Rameau 
was  leaning  his  burning  forehead  on  his  mother's  breast. 

The  next  morning  the  doctor  said  to  the  mother,  "  You  are 
worth  ten  of  me.  If  you  can  stay  here  we  shall  pull  him 
through."  ^ 

"  Stay  here  !— my  own  boy  1 "  cried  indignantly  the  poor 
mother. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  day  which  had  inflicted  on  Isaura  so  keen  an  anguish 
was  marked  by  a  great  trial  in  the  life  of  Alain  de  Roche- 
briant. 

In  the  morning  he  received  the  notice  of  " ««  coinmande- 
merit  iendant  a  saisie  immobiliere"  on  the  part  of  his  creditor 
M.  Louvier  ;  in  plain  English,  an  announcement  that  his  prop- 
erty at  Rochebriant  would  be  put  up  to  public  sale  on  a  certain 
day,  in  case  all  debts  due  to  the  mortgagee  were  not  paid  be- 
fore.    An  hour  afterwards  came  a  note  from  Duplessis  stating 


TUF  PAKISTANS. 


4oq 


thnl  "he  had  returned  fioin  Bretagne  or  tlie  previous  even'ng, 
and  would  he  very  happy  to  see  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant 
before  two  o'clock,  it  not  inconvenient  to  call." 

Alain  put  the  '•'■  commandemait"  into  his  pocket,  and  repair- 
ed to  the  Hotel  Duplessis, 

The  financier  received  him  with  very  cordial  civility.  Then 
he  began — "  I  am  happy  to  say  I  left  your  excellent  aunt  in 
very  good  health.  She  honored  the  letter  of  introduction  to 
her  which  I  owe  to  your  politeness  with  the  most  amiable  hospi- 
talities ;  she  insisted  on  my  removing  from  the  auberge  at  which 
1  first  put  up  and  becoming  a  guest  under  your  venerable  roof- 
tree — a  most  agreeable  lady,  and  a  most  interesting  chateau." 

"  I  fear  your  accommodation  was  in  striking  contrast  to 
your  comforts  at  Paris  ;  my  chateau  is  only  interesting  to  an  an- 
tiquarian enamoured  of  ruins." 

"  Pardon  me,  '  ruins'  is  an  exaggerated  ex])ression.  I  do 
not  say  that  the  chateau  does  not  want  some  repairs,  but  they 
would  not  be  costly  ;  the  outer  walls  are  strong  enough  to  defy 
time  for  centuries  to  come,  and  a  few  internal  decorations  and 
some  modern  additions  of  furniture  would  make  the  old  manoir 
a  home  fit  for  a  prince.  I  have  been  over  the  whole  estate,  too, 
with  the  worthy  M.  Hubert — a  superb  property  !  " 

"  Which  M.  Louvier  appears  to  appreciate,"  said  Alain, 
with  a  somewhat  melancholy  smile,  extending  to  Duplessis  the 
menacing  notice. 

Duplessis  glanced  at  it,  and  said  dr}'ly,  '*  M.  Louvier  knows 
what  he  is  about.  But  I  think  we  had  better  put  an  immediate 
stop  to  formalities  which  must  be  painful  to  a  creditor  so  benev- 
olent. I  do  not  presume  to  offer  to  pay  the  interest  due  on  the 
security  you  can  give  for  the  repayment.  If  you  refused  that 
offer  from  so  old  a  friend  as  Lemercier,  of  course  you  could  not 
accept  it  from  me.  I  make  another  proposal,  to  which  you  can 
scarcely  object.  I  do  not  like  to  give  my  scheming  rival  on  the 
Bourse  the  triumph  of  so  profoundly  planned  a  speculation. 
Aid  me  to  defeat  him.  Let  me  take  the  mortgage  on  myself, 
and  become  sole  mortgagee — hush  ! — on  this  condition,  that 
there  should  be  an  entire  union  of  interests  between  us  two ; 
that  1  should  be  at  liberty  to  make  the  improvements  I  desire, 
and  when  the  improvements  be  made,  there  should  be  a  fair  ar- 
rangement as  to  the  proportion  of  profits  due  to  me  as  mortga- 
gee and  improver,  to  you  as  original  owner.  Attend,  my  dear 
Marquis, — I  am  speaking  as  a  mere  man  of  business.  I  see 
my  way  to  adding  more  than  a  third — I  might  even  say  a  half — to 
Hhe   present  revenues  of  Rochebriant.     The  woods   have  been 


^ro  THE  PARIS rANS. 

sadly  neglected  ;  drainage  alone  would  add  greatly  to  their  pro- 
duce. Your  orchards  might  be  rendered  magnificent  supplies 
to  Paris  with  better  cultivation.  Lastlj',  I  would  devote  to 
building-purposes  or  to  market-gardens  all  the  lands  round  the 

two  towns  of and .     I  think  I  can  lay  my  hands  on 

suit  able  speculators  for  these  last  experiments.  In  a  word,  though 
the  market  value  of  Rochebriant,  as  it  now  stands,  would  nor 
be  equivalent  to  the  debt  on  it,  in  five  or  six  years  It  could  be 
made  worth — well,  I  will  not  say  how  much — but  we  shall  be 
both  well  satisfied  with  the  result.  Meanwhile,  if  you  allow 
me  to  find  purchasers  for  your  timber,  and  if  you  will  not  suffer 
the  Chevalier  de  Finisterre  to  regulate  your  expenses,  you  need 
have  no  fear  that  the  interest  due  to  me  will  not  be  regularly 
paid,  even  though  I  shall  be  compelled,  for  the  first  year  or  two 
at  least,  to  ask  a  higher  rate  of  interest  than  Louvier  exacted — 
say  a  quarter  per  cent,  more  ;  and  in  suggesting  that,  you  will 
comprehend  that  this  is  now  a  matter  of  business  between  us, 
and  not  of  friendship." 

Alain  turned  his  head  aside  to  conceal  his  emotion,  and 
then,  witJi  the  quick  affectionate  impulse  of  the  genuine  French 
nature,  threw  himself  on  the  financier's  breast  and  kissed  him 
on  both  cheeks. 

"  You  save  me  !  you  save  the  home  and  tombs  of  my  ances- 
tors !  I'hank  you  I  cannot ;  but  I  believe  in  God — I  pray — I 
will  pray  for  you  as  for  a  father  ;  and  if  ever,"  he  hurried  on  in 
broken  words,  "  I  am  mean  enough  to  squander  on  idle  luxuries 
one  franc  that  I  should  save  for  the  debt  due  to  you,  chide  me 
as  a  father  would  chide  a  graceless  son," 

Moved  as  Alain  was,  Duplessis  was  moved  yet  more  deeply. 
**  What  father  would  not  be  proud  of  such  a  son  ?  Ah,  if  I  had 
such  a  one  !  "  he  said  softly.  Then,  quickly  recovering  his 
wonted  composure,  he  added,  with  the  sardonic  smile  which 
often  chilled  his  friends  and  alarmed  his  foes,  "  Monsieur  Louvier 
is  about  to  pass  that  which  I  ventured  to  promise  him,  a 
'  mauvais  gnari-d'  heure.'  Lend  me  that  cominandement  tendant 
a  saisie.  I  must  be  off  to  vs\y  avoue\^\\h  instructions.  If  you 
have  no  better  engagement,  pray  dine  with  me  to-da.y  and 
accompany  Valerie  and  myself  to  the  opera." 

I  need  not  say  that  Alain  accepted  the  invitation.  How 
happy  Valdrie  was  thai  evening! 


THE  PAKISIAXS,  ^  , , 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  next  day  Duplessis  was  surprised  by  a  visit  from  At, 
J.ouvier — that  magnate  of  millionaires  had  never  before  set 
foot  in  the  house  of  his  younger  and  less  famous  rival. 

The  burly  man  entered  the  room  with  a  face  much  flushed, 
and  with  more  than  his  usual  mixture  of  jovial  bnisqiierie  and 
opulent  swagger. 

''  Startled  to  see  me,  I  daresay,"  began  Louvier,  as  soon  as 
the  door  was  closed.  "  I  have  this  morning  received  a  com- 
munication from  your  agent  containing  a  cheque  for  the  interest 
due  to  me  from  M.  Rochebriant,  and  a  formal  notice  of  your 
intention  to  pay  off  the  principal  on  behalf  of  that  ])opinjay 
prodigal.  Though  we  two  have  not  hitherto  been  the  best 
friends  in  the  world,  I  thought  it  fair  to  a  man  in  your  station 
to  come  to  you  direct  and  say,  '  Cher  confrere,  what  swindler  has 
bubbled  you .''  you  don't  know  the  real  condition  of  this  Breton 
property,  or  you  would  never  so  throw  away  your  millions. 
The  property  is  not  worth  the  mortgage  1  have  on  it  by  30,000 
louis." 

"Then,  M.  Louvier,  you  will  be  30,000  louis  the  richer  if 
I  take  the  mortgage  off  your  hands." 

"  I  am  afford  the  loss — no  offence — better  than  you  can ; 
and  I  may  have  fancies  which  I  don't  mind  paying  for,  but 
which  cannot  influence  another.  See,  I  have  brought  with  me 
the  exact  schedule  of  all  details  respecting  this  property.  You 
need  not  question  their  accuracy ;  they  have  been  arranged 
by  the  Marquis's  own  agents,  M.  Gandrin  and  M.  Hebert. 
They  contain,  you  will  perceive,  every  possible  item  of  revenue, 
down  to  an  apple-tree.  Now,  look  at  that,  and  tell  me  if  you 
are  justified  in  lending  such  a  sum  on  such  a  property." 

"Thank  you  very  much  for  an  interest  in  my  affairs  that  I 
scarcely  ventured  to  expect  M.  Louvier  to  entertain ;  but  I  see 
that  I  have  a  duplicate  of  this  paper,  furnished  to  me  very 
honestly  by  M.  Hdbert  himself.  Besides,  I  too  have  fancies 
which  I  don't  mind  paying  for,  and  among  them  may  be  a 
fancy  for  the  lands  of  Rochebriant." 

"  Look  you,  Duplessis,  when  a  man  like  me  asks  a  favor, 
you  may  be  sure  that  he  has  the   power  to  repay  it.     Let  me 


4,3  ^'l£  t'AKlSIAiSS. 

hnve  my  whim  here,  and  ask  anything  you  l.ke  from  me  in 
return  !  " 

"  Dfsole  not  to  oblige  you,  but  this  has  become  not  only  a 
whim  of  mine,  but  a  matter  of  honor;  and  honor,  you  know,  my 
dear  M.  Louvier,  is  the  first  principle  of  sound  finance.  1  have 
myself,  after  careful  inspection  of  the  Rochebriant  property, 
volunteered  to  its  owner  to  advance  the  money  to  pay  off  your 
hyfotJicque  ;  and  what  would  be  said  on  the  Bourse  if  Lucien 
Duplessis  failed  in  an  obligation  ?  " 

"  1  think  I  can  guess  what  will  one  day  be  said  of  Lucien 
Duplessis  if  he  makes  an  irrevocable  enemy  of  Paul  Louvier. 
Corbleu  I  nion  chcr,  a  man  of  thrice  your  capital,  who  watched 
every  speculation  of  yours  with  a  hostile  eye,  might  some  beau 
/our  make  even  you  a  bankrupt !  " 

"Forewarned,  forearmed!"  replied  Duplessis,  imperturb- 
ably.  •' '  Fas  est  ab  haste  doceri,''^ — I  mean,  •  It  is  right  to  be 
taught  by  an  enemy;'  and  I  never  remember  tlie  day  when 
you  were  otherwise,  and  yet  I  am  not  a  bankrupt,  though  I 
receive  you  in  a  house  which,  thanks  to  you,  is  so  modest  in 
point  of  size  !  " 

"  Bah  !  that  was  a  mistake  of  mine,  and, — ha  !  ba  !  you  had 
your  revenge  there — that  forest !  " 

"  Well,  as  a  peace-ofifering,  I  will  give  you  up  the  forest, 
and  content  my  ambition  as  a  landed  proprietor  with  this  bad 
speculation  of  Rochebriant!  " 

"  Confound  the  forest !  I  don't  care  for  it  now  !  I  can  sell 
my  place  for  more  than  it  has  cost  me,  to  one  of  your  imperial 
favorites.  Build  a  palace  in  your  forest.  Let  me  have  Roche- 
briant, and  name  your  terms." 

"  A  thousand  pardons  !  but  T  have  already  had  the  honor  to 
inform  you  that  I  have  contracted  an  obligation  which  does  not 
allow  me  to  listen  to  terms." 

A.S  a  serpent  that,  after  all  crawlings  and  windings,  rears  it- 
Be'.'  on  end,  Louvier  rose,  crest  erect — 

"  So,  then,  it  is  finished.  I  came  here  disposed  to  offer 
peace — you  refuse,  and  declare  war." 

'*  Not  at  all.  I  do  not  declare  war :  I  accept  it  if  forced  on 
me." 

"  Is  that  your  last  word,  M.  Duplessis  ?  " 

"Monsieur  Louvier,  it  is." 

•*  Bon-jour  1 " 

And  Louvier  strode  to  the  door ;  here  he  paused — "Take  a 
day  to  consider." 

"  Not  a  moment." 


THE  PARISIANS.  ^,3 

*'  Your  servant  Monsieur, — your  very  humble  servant."  Lou- 
vier  vanished. 

Duplessis  leaned  his  large  thoughtful  forehead  on  his  thin 
nervous  hand.  "  This  loan  will  pinch  me,"  he  muttered.  "  I 
must  be  very  wary  now  with  such  a  foe.  Well,  why  should  \ 
care  to  be  rich  .-*     Vale'rie's  dot,  Valcfrie  s  happiness  aie  secured.' 


CHAPTER  X. 

Madame  Savarin  wrote  a  very  kind  and  very  apologetic  letter 
to  Isaura  ;  but  no  answer  was  returned  to  it.  Madame  Savarin 
did  not  venture  to  communicate  to  her  husband  the  substance 
of  a  conversation  which  had  ended  so  painfully.  He  had,  in 
theory,  a  delicacy  of  tact,  which,  if  he  did  not  always  exhibit  it 
in  practice,  made  him  a  very  severe  critic  of  its  deficiency  in 
others.  Therefore,  unconscious  of  the  offence  given,  he  made  a 
point  of  calling  at  Isaura's  apartments  and  leaving  word  with 
her  servant  that  "  he  was  sure  she  would  be  pleased  to  hear  M. 
Rameau  was  somewhat  better,  though  still  in  danger." 

It  was  not  till  the  third  day  after  her  interview  with  Madame 
Savarin  that  Isaura  left  her  own  room, —  she  did  so  to  receive 
Mrs.  Morley. 

The  fair  American  was  shocked  to  see  the  change  in  Isaura's 
countenance.  She  was  very  pale,  and  with  that  appearance  of  ex- 
haustion which  betrays  continued  want  of  sleep ;  her  soft 
eyes  were  dim,  the  play  of  her  lips  was  gone,  her  light  step  was 
weary  and  languid. 

"  My  poor  darling,"  cried  Mrs.  Morley,  embracing  her,  "you 
have  indeed  been  ill  !     What  is  the  matter  t — who  attends  you  ?  '• 

"  I  need  no  physician  :  it  was  but  a  passing  cold — the  air  cf 
Paris  is  very  trying.  Never  mind  me,  dear — what  is  the  la:U 
news  ? " 

Therewith  Mrs.  Morley  ran  glibly  through  the  piincipal  topics 
of  the  hour-the  breach  threatened  between  M.  Ollivier  and  his 
former  liberal  partisans  ;  the  tone  unexpectedly  taken  by  M.  de 
Girardin  ;  the  speculations  as  to  the  result  of  the  trial  of  the  al 
leged  conspirators  against  the  Phnperor's  life,  which  was  fixed  to 
take  placp  towards  the  end  of  that  month  of  June, — all  mat- 
ters of  no  slight  importance  to  the  interests  of  the  empire. 
Sunk  deep  into  the   recesses  of  her  Jauteuil,  Isaura  seemed  to 


4 1  ^  THE  PARISIANS. 

listen  quietly,  till,  when  a  pause  came,  she  said,  in  cold  cleai 
tones, — 

"  And  Mr.  Graham  Vane — he  has  refused  your  invitation  ? " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  he  has — he  is  so  engaged  in  London." 

*•  I  knew  he  had  refused,"  said  Isaura,  with  a  low  bitter 
laugh. 

'*  How  ?  who  told  you  ?  " 

"  My  own  good  sense  told  me.  One  may  have  good  sense 
though  one  is  a  poor  scribbler." 

"  Don't  talk  in  that  way ;  it  is  beneath  you  to  angle  for  con\- 
pliments." 

"  Compliments  !  ah  !  And  so  Mr.  Vane  has  refused  to  come 
to  Paris;  nevermind,  he  will  come  next  year.  I  shall  not  be 
in  Paris  then.     Did  Colonel  Morley  see  Mr,  Vane  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  two  or  three  times." 

"  He  is  well .? " 

"  Quite  well,  I  believe — at  least  Frank  did  not  say  to  the  con- 
trary ;  but,  from  what  I  hear,  he  is  not  the  person  1  took  him  for. 
Many  people  told  Frank  that  he  is  much  changed  since  he  came 
into  his  fortune  ;  is  grown  very  stingy — quite  miserly,  indeed  ; 
declines  even  a  seat  in  Parliament,  because  of  the  expense.  It 
is  astonishing  how  money  does  spoil  a  man." 

"  He  had  come  into  his  fortune  when  he  was  here.  Money 
had  not  spoiled  him  then." 

Isaura  paused,  pressing  her  hands  tightly  together;  then  she 
suddenly  rose  to  her  feet,  the  color  on  her  cheek  mantlirg  and 
receding  rapidly,  and,  fixing  on  her  startled  visitor  ejes  no 
longer  dim,  but  with  something  half  fierce,  half  imploring  in  the 
passion  of  their  gaze,  said,  "  Your  husband  spoke  of  me  to  Mr. 
Vane  :  I  know  he  did.  What  did  Mr.  Vane  answer  1  Do  not 
evade  my  question.  The  truth  !  the  truth !  I  only  ask  the 
truth  !" 

"  Give  me  your  hand  ;  sit  here  beside  me,  dearest  child." 

"  Child  ! — no,  I  am  a  woman  ! — weak  as  a  woman,  but  stioi  g 
as  a  woman  too  !     The  truth  !  " 

Mrs.  Morley  had  come  prepared  to  carry  out  the  resolution 
she  had  formed  and,  "  break  "  to  Isaura  "  the  truth,"  that  whicli 
thftgirl  now  demanded.  But  then  she  had  meant  to  break  the 
truth  in  her  own  gentle  gradual  way.  Thus  suddenly  called  up- 
on, her  courage  failed  her.  She  burst  into  tears.  Isaura  gazed 
at  her  dry-eyed. 

"  Your  tears  answer  me.  Mr.  Vane  has  heard  that  I  have 
been  insulted.     A  m^in  like  him  does  not  stoop  to  love  for  a 


THE  PARISIANS.  4jr 

woman  who  has  known  an  insult.     I  do  not  blame  him  ;  I  honor 
him  the  more  :  he  is  right." 

"  No — no — no  ! — you  insulted  I  Who  dared  to  insult  you  ?  " 
(Mrs.Morley  had  never  heard  the  story  about  the  Russian  Prince.) 
"  Mr.  Vane  spoke  to  Frank  and  writes  of  you  to  me  as  of  one 
whom  it  is  impossible  not  to  admire,  to  respect ;  but — I  cannot  say 
it — you  will  have  the  truth, —  there  !  read  and  judge  for  yourself." 
And  Mrs.  Morley  drew  forth  and  thrust  into  Isaura's  hands  the 
letter  she  had  concealed  from  her  husband.  The  letter  was 
not  very  long;  it  began  with  expressions  of  warm  gratitude  to  Mrs. 
Morley,  not  for  her  invitation  only,  but  for  the  interest  she  had 
conceived  in  his  happiness.     It  then  went  on  thus  : — 

"  I  join  with  my  whole  heart  in  all  that  you  say,  with  such 
eloquent  justice,  of  the  mental  and  personal  gifts  so  bounteously 
lavished  by  nature  on  the  young  lady  whom  you  name. 

"  No  one  can  feel  more  sensible  than  I  of  the  charm  of  so 
exquisite  a  loveliness  ;  no  one  can  more  sincerely  join  in  the 
belief  that  the  praise  which  greets  the  commencement  of  her 
career  is  but  the  whisper  of  the  praise  that  will  cheer  its  pro- 
gress with  louder  plaudits, 

"  He  only  would  be  worthy  of  her  hand  who,  if  not  equal  to 
herself  in  genius,  would  feel  raised  into  partnership  with  it  by 
sympathy  with  its  objects  and  joy  in  its  triumphs.  For  myself, 
the  same  pain  with  which  I  should  have  learned  she  had 
adopted  the  profession  which  she  originally  contemplated,  sad- 
dened and  stung  me  when,  choosing  a  career  that  confers  a 
renown  yet  more  lasting  than  the  stage,  she  no  less  left  behind  her 
the  peaceful  immunities  of  private  life.  Were  I  even  free  to 
consult  only  my  own  heart  in  the  choice  of  the  one  sole  partner 
of  my  destinies  (which  I  cannot  at  present  honestly  say  that  I 
am,  though  I  had  expected  to  be  so  ere  this,  when  I  last  saw  you 
at  Paris)  ;  could  I  even  hope — which  I  have  no  right  to  do — ■ 
that  I  could  chain  to  myself  any  private  portion  of  thoughts 
which  now  flow  into  the  large  channels  by  which  poets  enrich 
the  blood  of  the  world, — still  (I  say  it  in  self-reproach,  it  m;iy 
be  the  fault  of  my  English  rearing,  it  may  rather  be  the  fa  alt  of 
an  egotism  peculiar  to  myself) — still  I  doubt  if  I  could  render 
happy  any  woman  whose  world  could  not  be  narrowed  to  the 
home  that  she  adorned  and  blessed. 

"  And  yet  not  even  the  jealous  tyranny  of  man's  love  could 
dare  to  say  to  natures  like  hers  of  whom  we  speak,  '  Limit  to 
the  household  glory  of  one  the  light  which  genius  has  placed  iri 
its  firmament  for  the  use  and  enjoyment  of  all.'  " 

I  thank    you    so   much,"  said  Isaura,  calmly  :   "  suspense 


(( 


4i6 


TlfE  PA  rj SI  A  AS. 


nuikes  a  woman  so  weak — certainty  so  strong."  Mechanically 
she  smoothed  and  refolded  the  letter — mechanically,  but  with 
slow,  lingering  hands  ;  then  she  extended  it  to  her  friend,  smit- 


ing. 


'  Nay,  will  you  not  keep  it  yourself  V  said  Mrs  Morley, 
"  The  more  you  examine  the  narrow-minded  prejudices,  the 
Knglish  arrogant  inati's  jealous  dread  of  superiority — nay,  of 
equality — in  the  woman  he  can  only  value  as  he  does  his  house 
or  his  horse,  because  she  is  his  exclusive  property,  the  more  you 
will  be  rejoiced  to  find  yourself  free  for  a  more  worthy  choice. 
Keep  the  letter;  read  it  till  you  feel  for  the  writer  forgiveness 
and  disdain." 

Isaura  took  back  the  letter,  and  learned  her  cheek  on  her 
hand,  looking  dreamily  into  space.  It  was  some  moments 
before  she  replied  ;  and  her  words  then  had  no  reference  to 
Mrs.  Morley's  consolatory  exhortation. 

"  He  was  so  pleased  when  he  learned  that  I  renounced  the 
career  on  which  1  had  set  my  ambition.  1  thought  he  would 
have  been  so  pleased  when  I  sought  in  another  career  to  raise 
myself  nearer  to  his  level — I  see  now  how  sadly  1  was  mistaken. 
All  that  perplexed  me  beforr  m  him  is  explained.  I  did  not 
guQss  how  foolishly  I  had  deceived  niyself  till  three  days  ago, — 
then  I  did  guess  it;  and  it  was  that  guess  which  tortured  me  so 
terribly  that  I  could  not  keep  my  heart  to  myself  when  I  saw 
you  to-day;  in  spite  of  all  womanly  pride  it  would  force  its  way 
— to  the  truth.  Hush !  I  muse  tell  you  what  was  said  to  me  by 
another  friend  of  mine — a  good  friend,  a  wise  and  kind  one. 
Yet  1  was  so  angry  when  she  said  it  that  I  thought  1  could  never 
see  her  more." 

"  My  sweet  darling  !  who  was  this  friend,  and  what  did  she 
say  to  you  .'"' 

"  The  friend  was  Madame  Savarin." 

"  No  woman  loves  you  more  except  myself — and  she  said  ?" 

"  That  she  would  have  suffered  no  daughter  of  hers  to  commit 
her  name  to  the  talk  of  the  w^orld  as  1  have  done — be  exposed 
to  risk  of  insult  as  I  have  been — until  she  had  the  shelter  and 
protection  denied  to  me.  And  I,  having  thus  overleaped  the 
bound  that  a  prudent  mother  would  prescribe  to  her  child,  have 
become  one  whose  hand  men  do  not  seek,  unless  they  them- 
selves take  the  same  roads  to  notoriety.  Do  you  not  think  she 
was  right  V 

"  Not  as  you  so  morbidly  put  it,  silly  girl, — certainly  not 
right.  But  1  do  wish  that  you  had  the  shelter  and  protection 
which  Madame   Savarin  meant  to  express  ;  1  do  wish  that  you 


THE  PARISIANS.  4,7 

were  happily  married  to  one  very  different  from  Mr.  Vane — 
one  who  would  be  more  proud  of  your  genius  than  of  youi 
beauty — one  who  would  say,  *  My  name,  safer  far  in  its  endur- 
ing nobility  than  those  that  depend  on  titles  and  lands — which 
are  held  on  the  tender  of  the  popular  breath — must  be  honored 
by  posterity,  for  she  has  deigned  to  make  it  hers.  No  democratic 
revolution  can  disennoble  me?  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  you  believe  that  men  will  be  found  to  think  with 
complacency  that  they  owe  to  a  wife  a  name  that  they  could  not 
achieve  for  themselves.  Possibly  there  are  such  men.  Where  } 
— among  those  that  are  already  united  by  sympathies  in  the 
same  callings,  the  same  labors,  the  same  hopes  and  fears,  with 
the  women  who  have  left  behind  them  the  privacies  of  home. 
Madame  de  Grantmesnil  was  wrong.  Artists  should  wed  with 
artists.     True — true  !" 

Here  she  passed  her  hand  over  her  forehead — it  was  a  pretty 
way  of  hers  when  seeking  to  concentrate  thought — and  was 
silent  a  moment  or  so. 

"  Did  you  ever  feel,"  she  then  asked  dreamily,  "  that  there 
are  moments  in  life  when  a  dark  curtain  seems  to  fall  over  one's 
past  that  a  day  before  was  so  clear,  so  blended  with  the  pres- 
ent .''  One  cannot  any  longer  look  behind  ;  the  gaze  is  at- 
tracted onward,  and  a  track  of  fire  flashes  upon  the  future, — 
the  future  which  yesterday  was  invisible.  There  is  a  line  by 
some  English  poet — Mr.  Vane  once  quoted  it,  not  to  me,  but 
to  M.  Savarin,  and  in  illustration  of  his  argument  that  the  most 
complicated  recesses  of  thought  are  best  reached  by  the  simplest 
forms  of  expression,  I  said  to  myself.  '  I  will  study  that  truth 
if  ever  I  take  to  literature  as  I  have  taken  to  song  ;'  and — yes 
it  was  that  evening  that  the  ambition  fatal  to  woman  fixed  on 
me  its  relentless  fangs — at  Enghien — we  were  on  the  lake — the 
sun  was  setting." 

"  But  you  do  not  tell  me  the  line  that  so  impressed  you," 
said  Mrs,  Morley,  with  the  woman's  kindly  tact. 

"  The  line — which  line  ?  Oh,  I  remember  ;  the  line  was 
this — 

'  I  see  as  from  a  tower  the  end  of  all.' 

And  riow — kiss  me,  dearest — never  a  word  again  to  me  about 
this  conversation  :  never  a  word  about  Mr,  Vane — the  dark 
curtain  has  fallen  on  the  past." 


4iS 


THE  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER  XL 

Men  and  women  are  much  more  like  each  other  in  certain 
large  elements  of  character  than  is  generally  supposed,  but  it 
is  that  very  resemblance  which  makes  their  differences  the  more 
incomprehensible  to  each  other  ;  just  as  in  politics,  theology,  or 
that  most  disputatious  of  all  things  disputable,  metaphysics,  the 
nearer  the  reasoners  approach  each  other  in  points  that  to  an 
uncritical  bystander  seem  the  most  important,  the  more  sure 
they  are  to  start  off  in  opposite  directions  upon  reaching  the 
speck  of  a  pin-prick. 

Now,  there  are  certain  grand  meeting-places  between  man 
and  woman — the  grandest  of  all  is  on  the  ground  of  love,  and 
yet  here  also  is  the  great  field  of  quarrel.  And  here  the  teller 
of  a  tale  such  as  mine  ought,  if  he  is  sufficiently  wise  to  be 
humble,  to  know  that  it  is  almost  profanation  if,  as  man,  he 
presumes  to  enter  the  penetralia  of  a  woman's  innermost  heart, 
and  repeat,  as  a  man  would  repeat,  all  the  vibrations  of  sound 
which  the  heart  of  a  woman  sends  forth  undistinguishable  even 
to  her  own  ear. 

I  know  Isaura  as  intimately  as  if  I  had  rocked  her  in  her 
cradle,  played  with  her  in  her  childhood,  educated  and  trained 
her  in  her  youth  ;  and  yet  I  can  no  more  tell  you  faithfully  what 
passed  in  her  mind  during  the  forty-eight  hours  that  intervened 
between  her  conversation  with  that  American  lady  and  her  re- 
appearance in  some  commonplace  drawing-room  than  I  can  tell 
you  what  the  Man  in  the  Moon  might  feel  if  the  sun  that  his 
world  reflects  vvere  blotted  out  of  creation. 

I  can  only  say  that  when  she  reappeared  in  that  common- 
place drawing-room  world  there  was  a  change  in  her  face  not 
ver}'  perceptible  to  the  ordinary  observer.  If  anything,  to  his 
eye  she  was  handsomer — the  eye  was  brighter — the  complexion 
(always  lustrous,  though  somewhat  pale,  the  limpid  paleness 
that  suits  so  well  with  dark  hair)  was  yet  more  lustrous., — it  was 
flushed  into  delicate  rose  hues — hues  that  still  better  suit  with 
tlark  hair.  What,  then,  was  the  change,  and  change  not  for  the 
better  ?  The  lips  once  so  pensively  sweet  had  grown  hard  ;  on 
the  brow  that  had  seemed  to  laugh  when  the  lips  did,  there  was 
no  longer  sympathy  between  brow  and  lip  ;  there  was  scarcely 
seen  a  line  llircad-like  line  that  in  a  few  years  would  be  a  furrow 
beiwceu  the  eyes;  the  voice  was  not  so  tenderly  soft ;  the  step 


THE  PARISIANS.  415 

was  haughtier.  What  all  such  change  denoted  it  is  for  a  woman 
to  decide — I  can  only  guess.  In  the  meanwhile,  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna  had  sent  her  servant  daily  to  inquire  after  M.  Rameau. 
That,  I  think,  she  would  have  done,  under  any  CLrcumstances. 
Meanwhile,  too,  she  had  called  on  Madame  Savarin — made  it 
ap  with  her — sealed  the  reconciliation  by  a  cold  kiss.  That, 
too,  under  any  circumstances,  I  think,  she  would  have  done — 
under  some  circumstances  the  kiss  might  have  heen  less  cold. 

There  was  one  thing  unwonted  in  her  habits,  I  mention  it, 
though  it  is  only  a  woman  who  can  say  if  it  means  anything 
worth  noticing. 

For  six  days  she  had  left  a  letter  from  Madame  de  Grant 
mesnil  unanswered.  With  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  was  con- 
nected the  whole  of  her  innermost  life — from  the  day  when  the 
lonely  desolate  child  had  seen,  beyond  the  dusty  thoroughfares 
of  life,  gleams  of  the  fairyland  in  poetry  and  art — onward 
through  her  restless,  dreamy,  aspiring  youth — onward — onward 
— till  now,  through  all  that  constitutes  the  glorious  reality  that 
we  call  romance. 

Never  before  had  she  left  for  two  days  unanswered  letters 
which  were  to  her  as  Sibylline  leaves  to  some  unquiet  neophyte, 
yearning  for  solutions  to  enigmas  suggested  whether  by  the 
world  without  or  by  the  soul  within.  For  six  days  Madame  de 
Grantmesnil's  letter  remained  unanswered,  unread,  neglected, 
thrust  out  of  sight ;  just  as,  when  some  imperious  necessity 
compels  us  to  grapple  with  a  world  that  is,  we  cast  aside  the 
romance  which  in  our  holiday  hours  had  beguiled  us  to  a  world 
with  which  we  have  interests  and  sympathies  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


G  usTAVE  recovered,  but  slowly.  The  physician  pronounced 
him  out  of  all  immediate  danger,  but  said  frankly  to  him,  and 
somewhat  more  guardedly  to  his  parents,  "There  is  ample 
cause  to  beware."  "  Look  you,  my  young  friend."  he  added  to 
Rameau,  "  mere  brain-work  seldom  kills  a  man  once  accustomed 
to  it,  like  you  ;  but  heart-work,  and  stomach-work,  and  nerve- 
work,  added  to  brain-work,  may  soon  consign  to  the  coffin  a 
frame  ten  times  more  robust  than  yours.  Write  as  much  as  you 
will — that  is  your  vocation  ;  but  it  is  not  your  vocation  to  drink 


20  THE  PARISIANS. 

absinthe— to  preside  at  orgies  in  the  Maison  Doree.  Regulate 
yourself,  and  not  after  the  fashion  of  the  fabulous  Don  Juan, 
jviarry — live  soberly  and  quietly — and  you  may  survive  the 
grandchi/.dren  of  viveurs.  Go  on  as  you  have  done,  and  before 
the  vear  is  out  you  are  in  Pere  la  Chaise.'^ 

Ranieau  listened  languidly,  but  with  a  profound  conviction 
that  the  physician  thoroughly  understood  his  case. 

Lying  helpless  on  his  bed,  he  had  no  desire  for  orgies  at  the 
Maison  Done  ;  with  parched  lips  thirsty  for  innocent  tisane  of 
lime-blossoms,  the  thought  of  absinthe  was  as  odious  to  him  as 
the  liquid  fire  of  Phlegcthon.  If  ever  sinner  became  suddenly 
convinced  that  there  was  a  good  deal  to  be  said  in  favor  of  a 
moral  life,  that  sinner,  at  the  moment  I  speak  of,  was  Gustave 
Rameau.  Certainly  a  moral  life — domus  et placens  uxor — was 
essential  to  the  poet  who,  aspiring  to  immortal  glory,  was  con- 
demned to  the  ailments  of  a  very  perishable  frame. 

"  Ah,"  he  murmured  plaintively  to  himself,  "  that  girl 
Isaura  can  have  no  true  sympathy  with  genius  !  It  is  no  ordi- 
nary man  that  she  will  kill  in  me  !  " 

And,  so  murmuring,  he  fell  asleep.  When  he  woke  and 
found  his  head  pillowed  on  his  mother's  breast,  it  was  much  as 
a  sensitive,  delicate  man  may  wake  after  having  drunk  too  much 
the  night  before.  Repentant,  mournful,  maudlin,  he  began  to 
weep,  and  in  the  course  of  his  weeping  he  confided  to  his 
mother  the  secret  of  his  heart. 

Isaura  had  refused  him — that  refusal  had  made  him  des- 
perate. "  Ah  !  with  Isaura  how  changed  would  be  his  habits  ! 
how  pure  !  how  healthful  !  " 

His  mother  listened  fondly,  and  did  her  best  to  comfort 
him  and  cheer  his  drooping  spirits. 

She  told  him  of  Isaura's  messages  of  inquiry  duly  twice  a 
day.  Rameau,  who  knew  more  about  women  in  general,  and 
Isaura  in  particular,  than  his  mother  conjectured,  shook  his 
head  mournfully.  "  She  could  not  do  less,"  he  said.  "  Has 
no  one  offered  to  do  more  ? " — he  thought  of  Julie  wh(na  he 
asked  that.     Madame  Rameau  hesitated. 

These  poor  Parisians !  it  is  the  mode  to  preach  against 
them  ;  and  before  my  book  closes  I  shall  have  to  preach — no, 
not  to  preach,  but  to  imply — plenty  of  faults  to  consider  and 
amend.  Meanwhile,  I  try  my  best  to  take  them,  as  the  phil- 
osophy of  life  tells  us  to  take  other  people,  for  what  they  are. 

I  do  not  think  the  domestic  relations  of  the  Parisian  bour- 
l^coisie  are  as  bad  as  they  are  said  to  be  in  French  novels. 
Madame  Rameau  is  not  an  uncommon  type  of  her  class.     She 


THE  PARISIANS.  4^1 

had  been,  when  she  futJt  married,  singularly  handsome — it  was 
from  her  that  Gustavo  inherited  his  beauty  ;  and  her  husband 
was  2  very  ordinary  type  of  the  French  shopkeeper — very 
plain,  by  no  means  iiitellectual,  but  gay,  good-humored,  de 
voted ly  attached  to  his  wife,  and  with  implicit  trust  in  her  con 
jugol  virtue.  Never  was  trust  better  placed.  There  was  not 
a  happier  or  a  more  faithful  couple  in  the  quartier  in  which 
they  resided,  Madame  Rameau  hesitated  when  her  boy,  think- 
ing of  Julie,  asked  if  no  one  had  done  more  than  send  to  in- 
quire after  him  as  Isaura  had  done. 

After  that  hesitating  pause  she  said,  "Yes — a  young  lad) 
calling  herself  Mademoiselle  Julie  Caumartin  wished  to  install 
herself  here  as  your  nurse.  When  I  said,  '  But  I  am  his  mother 
— he  needs  no  other  nurse,'  she  would  have  retreated,  and 
looked  ashamed — poor  thing  !  I  don't  blame  her  if  she  loved 
my  son.  But.  my  son,  I  say  this, — if  you  love  her,  don't  talk 
to  me  about  that  Mademoiselle  Cicogna ;  and  if  you  love  Ma- 
demoiselle Cicog.ia,  why,  then  your  father  will  take  care  that 
the  poor  girl  who  loved  you,  not  knowing  that  you  loved  an- 
other, is  not  left  to  the  ii'mptation  of  penury." 

Rameau's  pale  lips  withered  into  a  phantom-like  sneer. 
Julie !  the  resplendent  J  ulie  ! — true,  only  a  ballet-dancer,  but 
whose  equipage  in  the  Bois  had  once  been  the  envy  of  duch- 
esses ! — Julie  !  who  had  sacrificed  fortune  for  his  sake — who, 
freed  from  him,  could  have  millionaires  again  at  her  feet  I — ■ 
Julie  !  to  be  saved  from  penury,  as  a  shopkeeper  would  save 
an  erring  nursemaid  ! — Julie  !  the  irrepressible  Julie  !  who  had 
written  to  him,  the  day  before  his  illness,  in  a  pen  dipped,  not 
in  ink,  but  in  blood  from  a  vein  she  had  opened  in  her  arm, 
"Traitor!  I  have  not  seen  thee  for  three  days.  Dost  thou 
dare  to  love  another  ?  If  so, — I  care  not  how  thou  attempt  to 
conceal  it, — woe  to  her  I  Ingrat  I  woe  to  thee  !  Love  is  not 
love,  unless,  when  betrayed  by  love,  it  appeals  to  death.  An- 
swer me,  quick — quick  !  Julie.  ' 

Poor  Gustave  thought  of  that  letter  and  groaned.  Certainly 
his  mother  was  right — he  ought  to  get  rid  of  Julie;  but  he  did 
not  clearly  see  how  Julie  was  to  be  got  rid  of.  He  replied  to 
Madame  Rameau  peevishly,  "  Don't  trouble  your  head  about 
Mademoiselle  Caumartin ;  she  is  in  no  want  of  money.  Of 
course,  if  I  could  hope  for  Isaura — but,  alasl  I  dare  not  hope. 
Give  me  my  tisane^ 

When  the  doctor  called  next  day,  he  looked  grave,  and, 
drawing  Madame  Rameau  into  the  next  room,  he  said,  "  We 


^22  T'/Zi^  PAR/STANS. 

are  not  getting  on  so  well  as  I  had  hoped  ;  the  fever  is  gone: 
but  there  is  much  to  apprehend  from  the  debility  left  behina- 
His  spirits  are  sadly  depressed."  Then  added  the  doctor 
pleasantly,  and  with  that  wonderful  insight  into  our  complex 
humanity  in  which  physicians  excel  poets,  and  in  which  Pari 
sian  physicians  are  not  excelled  by  any  physicians  in  the  world, 
"Can't' you  think  of  any  bit  of  good  news  ? — that  '  M.  Thiers 
raves  about  your  son's  last  poem' — that '  it  is  a  question  among 
the  Academicians  between  him  and  Jules  Janin'  ?  or  that  '  the 
beautiful  Duchesse  de has  been  placed  in  a  lunatic-asy- 
lum because  she  has  gone  mad  for  love  of  a  certain  young  Red 
Republican  whose  name  begins  -with  R'  ? — can't  you  think  of 
any  bit  of  similar  good  news  ?  If  you  can,  it  will  be  a  tonic 
to  the  relaxed  state  of  your  dear  boy's  amoicr  propre,  compared 
to  which  all  the  drugs  in  the  Pharmacopoeia  are  moonshine 
and  water ;  and,  meanwhile,  be  sure  to  remove  him  to  your 
own  house,  and  out  of  the  reach  of  his  giddy  young  friends, 
as  soon  as  you  possibly  can." 

When  that  great  authority  thus  left  his   patient's  case  in 
the  hands  of  the  mother,  she  said,  "  The  boy  shall  be  saved." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


IsAURA  was  seated  beside  the  Venosta,  to  whom,  of  late, 
she  seemed  to  cling  with  greater  fondness  than  ever, — work- 
ing at  some  piece  of  embroider)' — a  labor  from  which  she  had 
been  estranged  for  years  ;  but  now  she  had  taken  writing,  read- 
ing, nmsic,  into  passionate  disgust.  Isaura  was  thus  seated, 
silently  intent  upon  her  work,  and  the  Venosta  in  full  talk, 
when  the  servant  announced  Madame  Rameau. 

The  name  startled  both  ;  the  Venosta  had  never  heard  that 
the  poet  had  a  mother  living,  and  immediately  jumped  to  the 
conclusion  that  Madame  Rameau  must  be  a  wife  he  had  hither- 
to kept  unrevealed.  And  when  a  woman,  still  ver}'  handsome, 
with  a  countenance  grave  and  sad,  entered  the  salon,  the 
Venosta  murmured,  "  The  husband's  perfidy  reveals  itself  on  a 
wife's  face,"  and  look  out  her  handkerchief  in  preparation  for 
sympaliii/.ing  tears. 

"  Mademoiselle."  said  tlie  visitor,  halting,  with  eyes  fixed 


THE  PARISIANS.  423 

on  Isaura,  "  pardon  my  intrusion — my  son  has  the  honor  to  be 
known  to  you.  Every  one  wlio  knows  him  must  share  m  my 
sorrow — so  young,  so  promising,  and  in  such  danger — my  poor 
boy!"  Madame  Rameau  stopped  abruptly.  Her  tears  forced 
their  way  ;  she  turned  aside  to  conceal  them. 

In  her  twofold  condition  of  being — womanhood  and  genius 
— Isaura  was  too  largely  endowed  with  that  quickness  of 
sympathy  which  distinguishes  woman  from  man,  and  genius 
from  talent,  not  to  be  wondrously  susceptible  to  pity. 

Already  she  had  wound  her  arm  round  the  grieving  mothei, 
already  drawn  her  to  the  seat  from  which  she  herself  had 
risen,  and,  bending  over  her,  had  said  some  words — true,  con- 
ventional enough  in  themselves,  but  cooed  forth  in  a  voice  the 
softest  I  ever  expect  to  hear,  save  in  dreams,  on  this  side  of 
the  grave. 

Madame  Rameavi  swept  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  glanced 
round  the  room,  and,  noticing  the  Venosta,  in  dressing-robe 
and  slijipers,  staring  with  those  Italian  eyes,  in  seeming  so 
quietly  innocent,  in  reality  so  searchingly  shrewd,  she  whis- 
pered pleadingly,  "  May  I  speak  to  you  a  few  minutes  alone  t  " 
This  was  not  a  request  that  Isaura  could  refuse,  though  she 
was  embarrassed  and  troubled  by  the  surmise  of  Madame 
Rameau's  object  in  asking  it  :  accordingly  she  led  her  visitor 
into  the  adjoining  room,  and,  making  an  apologetic  sign  to  the 
Venosta,  closed  the  door. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 


When  they  were  alone,  Madame  Rameau  took  Isaura's 
hand  in  both  her  own,  and,  gazing  wistfully  into  her  face,  said, 
"  No  wonder  you  are  so  loved  :  yours  is  the  beauty  that  sinks 
into  the  heart  and  rests  there.  I  prize  my  boy  more,  now  that 
I  have  seen  you.  But  oh,  Mademoiselle  !  pardon  me — do  not 
withdraw  your  hand — pardon  the  mother  who  comes  from  the 
sickbed  of  her  only  son  and  asks  if  you  will  assist  to  save 
him  !     A  word  from  you  is  life  or  death  to  him  ! " 

'*  Nay,  nay,  do  not  speak  thus,  Madame  :  your  son  knows 
how  much  I  value,  how  sincerely  I  return,  his  friendship  ;  but 
— but,"  she  paused  a  moment,  and  continued  sadly  and  with 
tearful  eyes,  "  I  have  no  heart  to  give  to  him — to  any  one." 


42  4  ^y/^  FAHJS/ANS. 

"  I  do  not — T  would  not  if  I  dared — ask  what  it  would  be 
violence  to  yourself  to  promise.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  bid  me 
return  to  my  son  and  say,  *  Hope  and  recover  ; '  but  let  me  take 
some  hcalino^  message  from  your  lips.  If  I  understand  your 
words  rightly,  I  at  least  may  say  that  you  do  not  give  to 
another  the  hopes  that  you  deny  to  him  ?  " 

"  So  far  you  understand  me  rightly,  Madame.  It  has  been 
said  that  romance-writers  give  away  so  much  of  their  hearts  to 
heroes  or  heroines  of  their  own  creation  that  they  leave  nothino 
worth  the  giving  to  human  beings  like  themselves.  Perhaps  it 
is  so;  yet,  Madame,"  added  Isaura,  with  a  smile  of  exquisite 
sweetness  in  its  melancholy,  "  I  have  heart  enough  left  to  feel 
for  you." 

Madame  Rameau  was  touched.  "Ah,  Mademoiselle,  I  do 
not  believe  in  the  saying  you  have  quoted.  But  I  must  not 
abuse  your  goodness  by  pressing  further  upon  you  subjects 
from  wliich  you  shrink.  Only  one  w'ord  more  :  you  know  that 
jay  husband  and  I  are  but  quiet  tradesfolk,  not  in  the  society, 
nor  aspiring  to  it,  to  which  my  son's  talents  have  raised  him- 
self ;  yet  dare  I  ask  that  you  will  not  close  here  the  acquaint- 
ance that  I  have  obtruded  on  you  1 — dare  I  ask  that  I  may 
now  and  then  call  on  you — that  now  and  then  I  may  see  you 
at  my  own  home  ?  Believe  that  I  would  not  here  ask  anything 
which  your  own  mother  would  disapprove  if  she  overlooked  dis- 
parities of  station.  Humble  as  our  home  is,  slander  never 
passed  its  threshold." 

"Ah,  Madame,  I  and  the  Signora  Venosta,  whom  in  our 
Italian  tongue  1  call  mother,  can  but  feel  honored  and  grateful 
whenever  it  pleases  you  to  receive  visits  from  us." 

"  It  would  be  a  base  return  for  such  gracious  compliance 
with  my  request  if  I  concealed  from  you  the  reason  why  I  pray 
I  leaven  to  bless  you  for  that  answer.  The  physician  saj-s  that 
it  may  be  long  before  my  son  is  suflficiently  convalescent  to 
difpense  with  a  mother's  care  and  resume  his  former  life  and 
occupation  in  the  world.  It  is  everything  for  us  if  we  can 
c(\nx  him  into  coming  under  our  own  roof-tree.  This  is  diffi- 
cult to  do.  It  is  natural  for  a  young  man  launched  into  the 
world  to  like  his  own  chez  lui.  Then  what  will  happen  to  Gus- 
tave  ?  He,  lonely  and  heart-stricken,  will  ask  friends,  young 
as  himself,  but  far  stronger,  to  come  and  cheer  him  ;  or  he  will 
seek  to  distract  his  thoughts  by  the  overwork  of  his  brain:  in 
either  case  he  is  doomed.  But  I  have  stronger  motives  yet  to 
fix  him  awhile  at  our  hearth.  This  is  just  the  moment',  once 
Inst   never  to  be  regained,  when  soothing  companionship,  gen- 


THE  PARISIANS. 

tie  reproachless  advice,  can  fix  him  lastingly  in  the  habits  and 
modes  of  life  which  will  banish  all  fears  of  his  future  from  the 
hearts  of  his  parents.  You  at  least  honor  him  with  friendship, 
with  kindly  interest — you  at  least  would  desire  to  wean  him 
from  all  that  a  friend  may  disapprove  or  lament — a  creature 
whom  Providence  meant  to  be  good  and  perhaps  great.  If  I 
say  to  him,  '  It  will  be  long  before  you  can  go  out  and  see  vour 
friends,  but  at  my  house  your  friends  shall  come  and  see  you — ■ 
among  them  Signora  Venosta  and  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  will 
now  and  then  drop  in,'  my  victory  is  gained,  and  my  son  is 
saved." 

"  Madame,"  said  Isaura,  half  sobbings  "  What  a  blessing  to 
have  a  mother  like  you !  Love  so  noble  ennobles  those  who 
hear  its  voice.  Tell  your  son  how  ardently  I  wish  him  .  to  be 
well,  and  to  fulfil  more  than  the  promise  of  his  genius  ;  tell 
him  also  this — how  I  envy  him  his  mother." 


CHArTER  XV. 


It  needs  no  length  of  words  to  inform  thee,  my  intelligen-. 
reader,  be  thou  man  or  woman — but  more  especially  woman— 
of  the  consequences,  following  each  other,  as  wave  follows 
wave,  in  a  tide,  that  resulted  from  the  intervievv  with  which 
my  last  chapter  closed.  Gustave  is  removed  to  his  parents' 
house ;  he  remains  for  weeks  confined  within-doors,  or,  on 
sunny  days,  taken  an  hour  or  so  in  his  own  carriage,  drawn  by 
a  horse  bought  from  Rochebriant,  into  by-roads  remote  from 
the  fashionable  world  ;  Isaura  visits  his  mother,  liking,  respect- 
ing, influenced  by  her  more  and  more  ;  in  those  visits  she  sits 
beside  the  sofa  on  which  Rameau  reclines.  Gradually,  gentlj 
— more  and  more  by  his  mother's  lips — is  impressed  on  her  the 
belief  that  it  is  in  her  power  to  save  a  human  life,  and  to  ani 
mate  its  career  towards  those  goals  which  are  never  basec 
Wholly  upon  earth  in  the  earnest  eyes  of  genius,  or  perhaps  ii 
the  yet  naore  upward  vision  of  pure-souled  believing  woman. 

And  Gustave  himself,  as  he  passes  through  the  slow  stage, 
of  convalescence,  seems  so  gratefully  to  ascribe  to  her  ever,/ 
step  in  his  progress — seems  so  gently  softened  in   character — 
seems  so  refined  from  the  old  affectations,  so  ennobled  above 
the  old  cynicism — and,  above  all.  so  needing  her  p:esence,  so 


426 


THE  PARISIANS. 


sunless  without  it,  that — well,  need  I  finish  the  sentence  ? — the 
reader  will  complete  what  1  leave  unsaid. 

Enough,  that  one  day  Isaura  returned  home  from  a  visit  at 
Madame  Rameau's  with  the  knowledge  that  her  hand  was 
pledged,  her  future  life  disposed  of,  and  that,  escaping  from 
the  Venosta,  whom  she  so  fondly,  and  in  her  hunger  for  a 
mother's  love,  called  Madre,  the  girl  shut  herself  up  in  her 
own  room  w'ith  locked  doors. 

Ah,  poor  child !  ah,  sweet-voiced  Isaura  1  whose  delicate 
image  I  feel  myself  too  rude  and  too  hard  to  transfer  to  this 
page  in  the  purity  of  its  outlines  and  the  blended  softnesses 
of  its  hues — thou  who,  when  saying  things  serious  in  the  words 
men  use,  saidst  them  with  a  seriousness  so  charming  and  with 
looks  so  feminine — thou,  of  whom  no  man  I  ever  knew  was 
quite  worthy — ah,  poor,  simple,  miserable  girl,  as  I  see  thee 
now  in  the  solitude  of  that  white-curtained  virginal  room  !  hast 
thou,  then,  merged  at  last  thy  peculiar  star  into  the  cluster  of 
all  those  commonplace  girls  whose  lips  have  said  "  Ay  "  when 
their  hearts  said  "  No  ?  " — thou,  O  brilliant  Isaura  !  thou,  O 
poor  motherless  child  I 

She  had  sunk  into  her  chair — her  own  favorite  chair, — the 
covering  of  it  had  been  embroidered  by  Madame  de  Grant- 
mesnii  and  bestowed  on  her  as  a  birthday  present  last  year — 
the  year  in  which  she  had  first  learned  what  it  is  to  love — the 
year  in  which  she  had  first  learned  what  it  is  to  strive  for  fame. 
And  somehow,  uniting,  as  many  young  people  do,  love  and 
fame  in  dreams  of  the  future,  that  silken  seat  had  been  to  her 
as  the  Tripod  of  Delhi  was  to  the  Pythian  :  she  had  taken  to 
it,  as  it  were  intuitively,  in  all  those  hours,  whether  of  joy  or 
sorrow,  when  youth  seeks  to  prophesy,  and  does  but  dream. 

There  she  sat  now,  in  a  sort  of  stupor — a  sort  of  dreary  be- 
wilderment— the  illusion  of  the  Pythian  gone,  desire  of  dream 
and  of  prophecy  alike  extinct — pressing  her  hands  together, 
and  muttering  to  herself,  *'  What  has  happened  ? — what  ha\e  I 
done  ?  " 

Three  hours  later  you  would  not  have  recognized  the  same 
face  that  you  see  now.  For  then  the  bravery,  the  honor,  the 
loyalty  of  the  girl's  nature  had  asserted  their  command.  Mei 
jjromise  had  been  given  to  one  man — it  could  not  be  recalled. 
Thought  itself  of  any  other  man  must  be  banished.  On  her 
hearth  lay  ashes  and  tinder — the  last  remains  of  every  treas- 
ured note  from  Graham  Vane  ;  of  the  hoarded  newspaper  ex- 
tracts that  contained  his  name  ;  of  the  dry  treatise  he  had 
published,  and  which  had  made  the  lovely  romance-writer  first 


THE  PARISIANS.  4?  7 

dftiire  "  to  know  something  about  politics."  Ay,  if  the  treatise 
had  been  upon  fox-hunting,  she  would  have  desired  "  to  know 
sowiething  about  "  that !  Above  all,  yet  distinguishable  from 
the  rest,  as  the  sparks  still  upon  stem  and  leaf  here  and  there 
faintly  glowed  and  twinkled,  the  withered  flowers  which  re- 
corded that  happy  hour  in  the  arbor,  and  the  walks  of  the  for- 
saken garden — the  hour  in  which  she  had  so  blissfully  pledged 
herself  to  renounce  that  career  in  art  wherein  fame  would  have 
been  secured,  but  which  would  not  have  united  Fame  with 
I.ove — in  dreams  evermore  over  now 


4iS 


THE  PARIS  FANS. 


BOOK  X. 


CHAPTER  I. 


Graham  Vane  had  heard  nothing  for  months  from  M,  Re 
rard,  when  one  morning  he  received  the  letter  I  translate  : 

"  Monsieur, — I  am  happy  to  inform  you  that  I  have  at  last 
obtained  one  piece  of  information  which  may  lead  to  a  more 
important  discovery.  When  we  parted  after  our  fruitless  re- 
search in  Vienna,  we  had  both  concurred  in  the  persuasion 
that,  for  some  reason  known  only  to  the  two  ladies  themselves, 
Madame  Marigny  and  Madame  Duval  had  exchanged  names— 
that  it  was  Madame  Marigny  who  had  deceased  in  the  name  of 
^Madame  Duval,  and  Madame  Djiival  who  survived  in  that  of 
Marigny. 

"  It  was  clear  to  me  that  the  beau  Monsieur  who  had  visited 
the  false  Duval  must  have  been  cognizant  of  this  exchange  of 
name,  and  that,  if  his  name  and  whereabouts  could  be  ascer- 
tained, he,  in  all  probability,  would  know  what  had  become  of 
the  lady  who  is  the  object  of  our  research  ;  and  after  the  lapse 
of  so  many  years  he  would  probably  have  very  slight  motive  to 
preserve  that  concealment  of  facts  which  might,  no  doubt,  have 
been  convenient  at  the  time.  The  lover  of  the  soi  (/isarit  Made- 
moiselle  Duval  was,  by  such  accounts  as  we  could  gain  a  man 
of  some  rank — very  possibly  a  married  man  ;  and  the  liaison, 
in  short,  was  one  of  those  which,  while  they  last,  necessitate 
precautions  and  secrecy. 

"  Therefore,  dismissing  all  attempts  at  further  trace  of  the 
missing  lady,  I  resolved  to  return  to  Vienna  as  soon  as  the 
business  that  recalled  me  to  Paris  was  concluded,  and  devote 
myself  exclusively  to  the  search  after  the  amorous  and  myste- 
rious Monsieur. 

"  I  did  not  state  this  determination  to  you,  because  possibly 
I  might  be  in  error — or,  if  not  in  error,  at  least  too  sanguine  in 


THE  PARISIAN'S.  429 

my  expectations — and  it  is  best  to  avoid  disappointing  an  hon 
orable  client. 

"  One  thing  was  clear,  that  at  the  time  of  the  soi-disant 
Duval's  decease  the  beau  Monsieur  was  at  Vienna. 

"  It  appeared  also  tolerably  clear  that  when  the  lady  friend 
of  the  deceased  quitted  Munich  so  privately,  it  was  to  Vienna 
she  repaired  ;  and  from  Vienna  comes  the  letter  demanding  the 
certificates  of  Madame  Duval's  death.  Pardon  me  if  I  remind 
you  of  these  circumstances,  no  doubt  fresh  in  your  recollection. 
T  repeat  them  in  order  to  justify  the  conclusions  to  which  they 
led  me. 

"  I  could  not,  however,  get  permission  to  absent  myself 
from  Paris  for  the  time  I  might  require,  till  the  end  of  last 
April.  I  had  meanwhile  sought  all  private  means  of  ascertain- 
ing what  Frenchmen  of  rank  and  station  were  in  that  capital  in 
the  autumn  of  1849.  Among  the  list  of  the  very  few  such 
Messieurs  I  fixed  upon  one  as  the  most  likely  to  be  the  myste- 
rious  Achille — Achille    was,    indeed,   his  noni  de  bapteine. 

"  A  man  of  intrigue — a  bonnes  fortunes — of  lavish  expendi- 
ture withal ;  very  tenacious  of  his  dignity,  and  avoiding 
any  petty  scandals  by  which  it  might  be  lowered ;  just  the  man 
who,  in  some  passing  afifair  of  gallantry  with  a  lady  of  doubtful 
repute,  would  never  have  signed  his  titular  designation  to  a 
letter,  and  would  have  kept  himself  as  much  incognito  as  he 
could.  But  this  man  was  dead — had  been  dead  some  years. 
He  had  not  died  at  Vienna — never  visited  that  capital  for 
some  years  before  his  death.  He  was  then,  and  had  long  been 
the  ami  de  la  maison  of  one  of  those  grandes  dames  of  whose  in- 
timacy grands  seigneurs  are  not  ashamed.  They  parade  there 
the  bonnes  fortujies  they  conceal  elsewhere.  Monsieur  and  the 
grande  dame  were  at  Baden  when  the  former  died.  Now,  Mon- 
sieur, a  Don  Juan  of  that  stamp  is  pretty  sure  always  to  have  a 
confidential  Leporello.  If  I  could  find  Leporello  alive  I  might 
learn  the  secrets  not  to  be  extracted  from  a  Don  Juan  defunci 
I  ascertained,  in  truth,  both  at  Vienna,  to  which  I  first  repaired 
in  order  to  verify  the  renseignements  I  had  obtained  at  Paris,  and 
at  Baden,  to  which  I  then  bent  my  way,  that  this  brilliant  noble 
Jiad  a  favorite  valet  who  had  lived  with  him  from  his  youth — an 
Italian,  who  had  contrived  in  the  course  of  his  service  to  lay  by 
savings  enough  to  set  up  a  hotel  somewhere  in  Italy,  supposed 
to  be  Pisa.  To  Pisa  I  repaired,  but  the  man  had  left  some 
years  ;  his  hotel  had  not  prospered — he  had  left  in  debt.  No 
one  could  say  what  had  become  of  him.  At  last,  after  a  long 
and  tedious  research,  I  found  him   installed  as   manager  of   a 


430  ^-^-^  PARISIANS. 

small  hotel  at  Genoa — a  pleasant  fellow  enough  ;  and,  aftei 
friendly  intercourse  with  him  (of  course  I  lodged  at  his  hotel), 
I  easily  led  hini  to  talk  of  his  earlier  life  and  adventures,  and 
especially  of  his  former  master,  of  whose  splendid  career  in  the 
army  of  '  La  Belle  Deesse  '  he  was  not  a  little  proud.  It  was 
not  very  easy  to  get  him  to  the  particular  subject  in  question.  In 
fact,  the  affah-  with  the  poor  false  Duval  had  been  so  brief  and 
undistinguished  an  episode  in  his  master's  life  that  it  was  not 
without  a  strain  of  memory  that  he  reached  it. 

"  By  little  and  little,  however,  in  the  course  of  two  or  three 
evenings,  and  by  the  aid  of  many  flasks  of  Orviette  and  bottles 
of  Lacrima  (wines,  Monsieur,  that  I  do  not  commend  to  any 
one  who  desires  to  keep  his  stomach  sound  and  his  secrets 
safe),  I  gathered  these  particulars. 

"  Our  Don  Juan,  since  the  loss  of  a  wife  in  the  first  year  of 
marriage,  had  rarely  visited  Paris,  where  he  had  a  domicile — 
his  ancestral  hotel  there  he  had  sold. 

"  But  happening  to  visit  that  capital  of  Europe,  a  few  months 
before  we  come  to  our  dates  at  Aix-la-Chapelle,  he  made  ac- 
quaintance with  Madame  Marigny,  a  natural  daughter  of  high- 
placed  parents,  by  whom,  of  course,  she  had  never  been  ac- 
knowled<red,  but  who  had  contrived  that  she  should  receive  a 
good  education  at  a  convent,  and  on  leaving  it  also  contrived 
that  an  old  soldier  of  fortune — which  means  a  soldier  with- 
out fortune — who  had  served  in  Algiers  with  some  dis- 
tinction, should  offer  her  his  hand  and  add  the  modest 
dof  they  assigned  her  to  his  yet  more  modest  income. 
They  contrived  also  that  she  should  understand  the  offer 
must  be  accepted.  Thus  Mademoiselle  '  Quelqiie chose''  became 
Madame  Marigny,  and  she,  on  her  part,  contrived  that  a  year 
or  so  later  she  should  be  left  a  widow.  After  her  marriage,  of 
course,  the  parents  washed  their  hands  of  her — they  had  done 
their  duty.  At  the  time  Don  Juan  made  this  lady's  acquaint- 
ance, nothing  could  be  said  against  her  character ;  but  the 
milliners  and  butchers  had  begun  to  imply  that  they  would 
rather  have  her  money  than  trust  to  her  character.  Don  Juan 
fell  in  love  with  her,  satisfied  the  immediate  claims  of  millinei 
and  butcher,  and  when  they  quitted  Paris  it  was  agreed  thai 
they  should  meet  later  at  Aix-la-Chapelle.  But  when  he  resort- 
ed to  that  sultry  and,  to  my  mind,  unalluring  spa,  he  was  sui 
prised  by  a  line  from  her  saying  that  she  had  changed  her 
name  of  Marigny  for  that  of  Duval. 

"*  I  recollect,'  said  Leporello,  '  that  two  days  afterwards  my 
master  said  to  me,  "  Caution  and  secrecy.     Don't  mention  my 


THE  PARISIANS.  43, 

name  at  the  house  to  which  I  may  send  you  with  any  note  for 
Madame  Duval.  1  don't  announce  my  name  when  I  call.  La 
petite  Marigny  has  changed  her  name  for  that  of  Louise  Duval  ; 
and  I  find  that  there  is  a  Louise  Duval  here,  her  friend,  who  'vi 
niece  to  a  relation  of  my  own,  and  a  terrible  relation  to  quarrel 
with — a  dead  shot  and  unrivalled  swordsman — Victor  de  Mau 
leon."  My  master  was  brave  enough,  but  he  enjoyed  l"fe,  and 
did  not  think  la  petite  Marigny  worth  being  killed  for,' 

"Leporello  remembered  very  little  of  what  followed.  All  he 
did  remember  is  that  Don  Juan  said  to  him  one  morning,  look- 
ing less  gay  than  usual,  '  It  is  finished  with  la  petite  Marigny — • 
she  is  no  more.'  Then  he  ordered  his  bath,  wrote  a  note,  and 
said  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  '  take  this  to  Mademoiselle  Celeste  ; 
not  to  be  compared  with  la  petite  Marigny ;  but  la  petite  Celeste 
is  still  alive.'  Ah,  Monsieur  !  if  only  any  man  in  France  cou  d 
be  as  proud  of  his  ruler  as  that  Italian  was  of  my  countryman  ! 
Alas  !  we  Frenchmen  are  all  made  to  command — or  at  least  we 
think  ourselves  so — and  we  are  insulted  by  one  who  says  to  us, 
'  Serve  and  obey.'  Nowadays  in  France  we  find  all  Don  Juans 
and  110  Leporellos. 

"  After  strenuous  exertions  on  my  part  to  recall  to  Lepor- 
ello's  mind  the  important  question  whether  he  had  ever  seen 
the  true  Duval,  passing  under  the  name  of  Marigny — whether 
she  had  not  presented  herself  to  his  master  at  Vienna  or  else- 
where— he  rubbed  his  forehead,  and  drew  from  it  these  remi- 
niscences : 

"  '  On  the  day  that  his  Excellency,' — Leporello  generally  so 
styled  his  master — '  Excellency,'  as  you  are  aware,  is  the  title 
an  Italian  would  give  to  Satan  if  taking  his  wages,—"'  told  me 
that  la  petite  Marigny  was  no  more,  he  had  received  previously  a 
lady  veiled  and  mantled,  whom  I  did  not  recognize  as  any  one 
I  had  seen  before,  but  I  noticed  her  way  of  carrying  herself — 
haughtily — her  head  thrown  back  ;  and  I  thought  to  myself, 
That  lady  is  one  of  his  grandes  dames.  She  dkl  call  again  two 
or  three  times,  never  announcing  her  name  ;  then  she  did  not 
reappear.     She  might  be  Madame  Duval — I  can't  say.' 

"  '  But  did  you  never  hear  his  Excellency  speak  of  the  real 
Duval  after  that  time  t 

"  'No — no7i  vii  ricordo — I  don't  remember.* 

"  '  Nor  of  some  living  Madame  Marigny,  though  the  real 
one  was  dead  ? ' 

" '  Stop,  I  do  recollect ;  not  that  he  ever  named  such  a 
person  to  me,  but  that  I  have  posted  letters  for  him  to  a  Madame 
Marigny — oh,  yes!  even  years  after  the    said  petite  Marigny 


422  "^fJE  PARISIANS. 

was  dead ;  and  once  I  did  venture  to  say,  "  Pardon  me,  Ex- 
cellenza,  but  may  I  ask  if  that  poor  lady  is  really  dead,  since 
I  have  to  prepay  this  letter  to  her  ?  "  "  Oh,"  said  he,  "  Ma- 
dame Marigny  !  Of  course  the  one  you  know  is  dead,  but  there 
are  others  of  the  same  name  ;  this  lady  is  of  my  family.  Indeed, 
her  house,  though  noble  in  itself,  recognizes  the  representative 
of  mine  as  its  head,  and  I  am  too  bon  prince  not  to  acknowledge 
and  ser\'e  any  one  who  branches  out  of  my  own  tree.  "  ' 

"  A  day  after  this  last  conversation  on  the  subject,  Leporello 
said  to  me,  '  My  friend,  you  certainly  have  some  interest  in  as- 
certaining what  became  of  the  lady  who  took  the  name  of 
Marigny.'  (I  state  this  frankly,  Monsieur,  to  show  how  diffi- 
cult even  for  one  so  prudent  as  I  am  to  beat  about  a  bush  long 
but  what  you  let  people  know  the  sort  of  bird  you  are  in  search 
of.) 

"'Well,' said  I,  'she  does  interest  me.  I  knew  somethmg 
of  that  Victor  de  MauMon  whom  his  Excellency  did  not  wish 
to  quarrel  with  ;  and  it  would  be  a  kindly  act  to  her  relation  if 
one  could  learn  what  became  of  Louise  Duval.' 

"  '  I  can  put  you  on  the  way  of  learning  all  that  his  Excel- 
lency was  likely  to  have  known  of  her  through  correspondence. 
I  have  often  heard  him  quote  with  praise  a  saying  so  clever 
that  it  might  have  been  Italian — "Never  write,  never  burn;  " 
that  is,  never  commit  yourself  by  a  letter — keep  all  letters  that 
could  put  others  in  your  power.  All  the  letters  he  received 
were  carefully  kept  and  labelled.  I  sent  them  to  his  son  in  four 
large  trunks.     His  son,  no  doubt,  has  them  still.' 

"  Now,  however,  I  have  exhausted  my  budget.  I  arrived 
at  Paris  last  night.  I  strongly  advise  you  to  come  hither  at 
once,  if  you  still  desire  to  prosecute  your  search. 

"  You,  Monsieur,  can  do  what  I  could  not  venture  to  do  : 
you  can  ask  the  son  of  Don  Juan  if  amid  the  correspondence 
of  his  father,  which  he  may  have  preserved,  there  be  any  signed 
Marigny  or  Duval — any,  in  short,  which  can  throw  light  on  this 
very  obscure  complication  of  circumstances.  A  grand  seigneur 
would  naturally  be  more  complaisant  to  a  man  of  your  station 
than  he  would  be  to  an  agent  of  police.  Don  Juan's  son, 
inheriting  his  father's  title,  is  Monseiur  le  Marquis  de 
Rochebriant ;  and  permit  me  to  add  that  at  this  moment,  as  the 
journals  doubtless  inform  you,  all  Paris  resounds  with  the 
rumor  of  coming  war,  and  I^Ionsieur  de  Rochebriant — who  is, 
as  I  have  ascertained,  now  in  Paris — it  may  be  difficult  to  find 
anvwhere  on  earth  a  month  or  two  hence.  I  have  the  honor, 
with  profouiul  consideration,  etc.  etc.  "  I,   Renard." 


THE  PARISIANS.  433 

The  day  after  the  receipt  of  this  letter  Graham  Vane  was 
in  Paris. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Among  things  indescribable  is  that  which  is  called  "  agita- 
tion "  in  Paris—"  agitation  "  without  riot  or  violence — showing 
itself  by  no  disorderly  act,  no  turbulent  outburst.  Perhaps  the 
cafes  are  more  crowded ;  passengers  in  the  streets  stop  each 
other  more  often,  and  converse  in  small  knots  and  groups ; 
'■  et,  on  the  whole,  there  is  little  externally  to  show  how  loudly 
die  heart  of  Paris  is  beating.  A  traveller  may  be  passing 
through  quiet  landscapes,  unconscious  that  a  great  battle  is  go- 
ing on  some  miles  off,  but  if  he  will  stop  and  put  his  ear  to  the 
ground  he  will  recognize,  by  a  certain  indescribable  vibration 
the  voice  of  the  cannon. 

But  at  Paris  an  acute  observer  need  not  stop  and  put  his 
ear  to  the  ground  ;  he  feels  within  himself  a  vibration — a 
mysterious  inward  sympathy  which  communicates  to  the  in- 
dividual a  conscious  thrill — when  the  passions  of  the  multitude 
are  stirred,  no  matter  how  silently. 

Tortoni's  cafe  was  thronged  when  Duplessis  and  Frederic 
Lemercier  entered  it ;  it  was  in  vain  to  order  breakfast ;  no 
table  was  vacant,  either  within  the  rooms  or  under  the  awnings 
without. 

But  they  could  not  retreat  so  quickly  as  they  had  entered. 
On  catching  sight  of  the  financier,  several  men  rose  and  gath 
ered  round  him,  eagerly  questioning — 

"  What  do  you  think,  Duplessis  ?  Will  any  insult  to  France 
puc  a  drop  of  warm  blood  into  the  frigid  viens  of  that  miserable 
Ollivier  ? " 

"  It  is  not  yet  clear  that  France  has  been  insulted,  Mes- 
sieurs," replied  Duplessis,  phlegmatically. 

"  Bah  !  Not  insulted  !  The  very  nomination  of  a  Hohen- 
zoUern  to  the  crown  of  Spain  was  an  insult — what  would  j  Ju 
have  more  !  " 

'  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Duplessis,"  said  the  Vicom(e  de 
Br^z^,  whose  habitual  light  good  temper  seemed  exchanged  for 
insolent  swagger — "  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  your  friend  the  Emperor 
has  no  more  courage  than  a  chicken.  He  is  grown  old  and 
infirm  and  lazy ;  he  knows  that  he  can't  even  mount  on  horse- 


^34  ^^^^  PARISIANS. 

back.  But  if,  before  this  day  week,  he  has  not  declared  war 
on  the  Prussians,  he  will  be  lucky  if  he  can  get  off  as  quietly 
as  poor  Louis  Philippe  did  under  shelter  of  his  umbrella  and 
ticketed  '  Schmidt.'  Or  could  you  not,  M.  Duplessis,  send  him 
back  to  London  in  a  bill  of  exchange  ? '' 

"  For  a  man  of  your  literary  repute,  M,  Vicomte,"  said 
Duplessis,  "  you  indulge  in  a  strange  confusion  of  metaphors. 
]iut,  pardon  me,  I  came  here  to  breakfast,  and  I  cannot  remain 
to  quarrel.  Come,  Leniercier,  let  us  take  our  chance  of  a  cutlet 
at  the  Trois  Frcres" 

"  Fox,  Fox,"  cried  Lemercier,  whistling  to  a  poodle  thai 
had  followed  him  into  the  cafe,  and,  frightened  by  the  sudden 
movement  and  loud  voices  of  the  habitues,  had  taken  refuge 
uuder  the  table. 

"Your  dog  ispoltron,"  said  De  Bre'ze   "  call  him  Nap." 

At  this  stroke  of  humor  there  was  a  general  laugh,  in  the 
midst  of  which  Duplessis  escaped,  and  Frederic,  having  dis- 
covered and  caught  his  dog,  followed  with  that  animal  tenderly 
clasped  in  his  arms.  "  I  would  not  lose  Fox  for  a  great  deal," 
said  Lemercier,  with  effusion ;  "  a  pledge  of  love  and  fidelity 
from  an  F.nglish  lady  the  most  distinguished  :  the  lady  left  me 
— the  dog  remains." 

Duplessis  smiled  grimly  :  "  What  a  thorough-bred  Parisian 
you  are,  my  dear  Frederic  !  I  believe  if  the  trump  of  the  last 
angel  were  sounding,  the  Parisians  would  be  divided  into  two 
sets  ;  one  would  be  singing  the  Marseillaise  and  parading  the 
red  flag ;  the  other  would  be  shrugging  their  shoulders  and  say- 
ing, '  liah  !  as  \i.le  Bon  Dieu  would  have  the  bad  taste  to  injure 
Paris — the  Seat  of  the  Graces,  the  School  of  the  Arts,  the 
Fountain  of  Reason,  the  Eye  of  the  World  ;  and  so  be  found  by 
the  destroying  angel  caressing  poodles  and  making  bons  mots 
about  Ics femfnesT 

"  And  quite  right,  too,"  said  Lemercier,  complacently. 
"  What  other  people  in  the  world  could  retain  lightness  of  heart 
under  circumstances  so  unpleasant?  But  why  do  you  take 
things  so  solemnly  ?  Of  course  there  will  be  war — idle  now  to 
talk  of  explanations  and  excuses.  When  a  Frenchman  says,  '  I 
am  insulted,'  he  is  not  going  to  be  told  that  he  is  not  insulted. 
He  means  fighting,  and  not  apologizing.  But  what  if  there  be 
war  ?  Our  brave  soldiers  beat  the  Prussians — take  the  Rhine- 
return  to  Paris  covered  with  laurels  ;  a  new  Boulevard  de  Berlin 
eclipses  the  Boulevard  Sebastopol.  By  the  way,  Duplessis,  a 
Boulevard  de  Berlin  will  be  a  good  speculation — better  than  the 
Ruff   do    Luuvier.     Ah!   is   not  that   my  English   friend  Grarm 


THE  PARISIANS. 


435 


Varn  ? "  Here,  quitting  the  arm  of  Duplessis,  Lemercier 
stopped  a  gentleman  who  was  about  to  pass  him  unno'.icir.g. 
^^  Bon  jour,  mon  ami  !  how  long  have  you  been  in  Paris  ?  " 

"  I  only  arrived  last  evening,"  answered  Graham  ;  "  and  my 
•-•"  may  be  so  short  that  it  is  a  piece  of  good  luck,  my  dear 

ijrcier,  to  meet  with  you  and  exchange  a  cordial  shake  of 
Liic  hand." 

"  We  are  just  going  to  breakfast  at  the  Trois  Freres — Du- 
jilessis  and  I — pray  join  us." 

"  With  great  pleasure — ah,  M.  Duplessis,  I  shall  be  glad  to 
hear  from  you  that  the  Emperor  will  be  firm  enough  to  check 
the  advances  of  that  martial  fever  which,  to  judge  by  the  per- 
sons I  meet,  seems  to  threaten  delirium." 

Duplessis  looked  very  keenly  at  Graham's  face,  as  he  replied 
slowly,  "  The  English,  at  least,  ought  to  know  that  when  the 
Emperor  by  his  last  reforms  resigned  his  personal  authority  for 
constitutional  monarchy,  it  ceased  to  be  a  question  whether  he 
could  or  could  not  be  firm  in  matters  that  belong  to  the  Cabinet 
and  the  Chambers.  I  presume  that  if  Monsieur  Gladstone  ad- 
vised Queen  Victoria  to  declare  war  upon  the  Emperor  of  Rus- 
sia, backed  by  a  vast  majority  in  Parliament,  you  would  think 
me  very  ignorant  of  constitutional  monarchy  and  parliamentary 
government  if  I  said,  '  I  hope  Queen  Victoria  will  resist  that 
martial  fever.'  " 

"  You  rebuke  me  very  fairly,  M.  Duplessis,  if  you  can  show 
me  that  the  two  cases  are  analogous  ;  but  we  do  not  understand 
in  England  that,  despite  his  last  reforms  the  Emperor  has  so 
abnegated  his  individual  ascendency  that  his  will,  clearly  and 
resolutely  expressed,  would  not  prevail  in  his  Council  and  silence 
opposition  in  the  Chambers,     Is  it  so  ?     I  ask  for  information." 

Th^  three  men  were  walking  on  towards  the  Palais  Royal 
side  by  side  while  this  conversation  proceeded. 

"  That  all  depends,"  replied  Duplessis,  "  upon  what  may 
be  the  increase  of  popular  excitement  at  Paris.  If  it  slackens, 
the  Emperor,  no  doubt,  could  turn  to  wise  account  that  favor- 
able pause  in  the  fever.  But  if  it  continues  to  swell,  and  Paris 
cries  '  War,'  in  a  voice  as  loud  as  it  cried  to  Louis  Philippe 
'Revolution,'  do  you  think  that  the  Emperor  could  impose  on 
his  ministers  the  wisdom  of  peace  ?  His  ministers  would  be  too 
terrified  by  the  clamor  to  undertake  the  responsibility  of  oppos- 
ing it — they  would  resign.  Where  is  the  Emperor  to  find 
another  Cabinet  ? — a  peace  Cabinet  ?  What  and  who  are  the 
orators  for  peace  ? — what  a  handful  ! — who  ?  Gambetta,  Jules 
Favre,  avowed  Republicans.     Would  they  even  accept  liic  post 


436  THE  PARISIANS. 

of  ministers  to  Louis  Napoleon  ?  If  they  did,  would  not  theii 
first  step  be  the  abolition  of  the  Empire  ?  Napoleon  is  there- 
fore so  far  a  constitutional  monarch  in  the  same  sense  as  Queen 
Victoria,  that  the  popular  will  in  the  countr}'  (and  in  France  in 
sucii  matters  Paris  is  the  country)  controls  the  Chambers,  con- 
trols the  Cabinet ;  and  against  the  Cabinet  the  Emperor  could 
not  contend.  I  say  nothing  of  the  army — a  power  in  France 
unknown  to  you  in  England — which  would  certainly  fraternize 
w'.th  no  peace  party.  If  war  is  proclaimed,  let  England  blamf 
it  if  she  will — she  can't  lament  it  more  than  I  should:  but  lei 
England  blame  the  nation  ;  let  her  blame,  if  she  please,  the 
form  of  the  government,  which  rests  upon  popular  suffrage  ;  but 
do  not  let  her  blame  our  sovereign  more  than  the  French  would 
blame  her  own  if  compelled  by  the  conditions  on  which  she  holds 
her  crown  to  sign  a  declaration  of  war,  which  vast  majorities  in 
a  Parliament  just  elected,  and  a  Council  of  Ministers  whom  she 
could  not  practically  replace,  enforced  upon  her  will." 

"  Your  observations,  M.  Duplessis,  impress  me  strongly,  and 
add  to  the  deep  anxieties  with  which,  in  common  with  all  my 
countrymen,  I  regard  the  menacing  aspect  of  the  present  hour. 
Let  us  hope  the  best.  Our  government,  I  know,  is  exerting  it- 
self to  the  utmost  verge  of  its  power  to  remove  every  just 
ground  of  offence  that  the  unfortunate  nomination  of  a  German 
prince  to  the  Spanish  throne  could  not  fail  to  have  given  to 
French  statesmen." 

"  I  am  glad  you  concede  that  such  a  nomination  was  a  just 
ground  of  offence,"  said  Lemercier,  rather  bitterly  ;  "  for  I  have 
met  Englishmen  who  assert  that  France  had  no  right  to  resent 
any  choice  of  a  sovereign  that  Spain  might  make." 

"  Englishmen  in  general  are  not  very  reflective  politicians 
in  foreign  affairs,"  said  Graham ;  "  but  those  who  are  must  see 
that  France  could  not,  without  alarm  the  most  justifiable,  con- 
template a  cordon  of  hostile  states  being  drawn  around  her  on 
all  sides, — German}^,  in  itself  so  formidable  since  the  field  of 
Sadowa,  on  the  east ;  a  German  prince  in  the  southwest ;  the 
not  improbable  alliance  between  Prussia  and  the  Italian  king- 
dom, already  so  alienated  from  the  France  to  which  it  owes  so 
much.  If  England  would  be  uneasy  were  a  great  maritime 
power  possessed  of  Antwerp,  how  much  more  uneasy  might 
France  justly  be  if  Prussia  could  add  the  armies  of  Spain  to 
those  of  Germany  and  launch  them  both  upon  France  !  But  the 
cause  of  alarm  is  over — the  Hohenzollern  is  withdrawn.  Let 
us  hope  for  the  best." 

The  three  men  had  now  seated  themselves  at  a  table  in  the 


THE   PARTSTAXS.  4^^ 

IVois  Freres,  and  Lemercier  volunteered  the  task  of  inspecting 
the  memi  and  ordering  the  repast,  still  keeping  guard  on  Fox. 

"  Observe   that   man,"  said   Duplessis,  pointing   towards  a 
gentleman  who  had  just  entered  ;  "  the  other  day  he  was  the 
popular  hero — now,  in  the  excitement  of  threatened  war,  he  is 
permitted  to  order  his  i^i/?^iun congratulated,  uncaressed.    Such 
is  fame  at  Paris !  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow." 
"  How  did  the  man  become  famous  t  " 
"  He  is  a  painter,  and  refused  a  decoration — the  only  French 
painter  who  ever  did." 
"  And  why  refuse  ?" 

"  Because  he  is  more  stared  at  as  the  man  who  refused,  than 
he  would  have  been  as  the  man  who  accepted.  If  ever  the 
Red  Republicans  have  their  day,  those  among  them  most 
certain  of  human  condemnation  will  be  the  coxcombs  who 
have  gone  mad  from  the  desire  of  human  applause." 
"  You  are  a  profound  philosopher,  M.  Duplessis." 
"  1  hope  not — I  have  an  especial  contempt  for  aphilospher. 
Pardon  me  a  moment — I  see  a  man  to  whom  I  would  say  a 
word  or  two." 

Duplessis  crossed  over  to  another  table  to  a  middle-aged 
man  of  somewhat  remarkable  countenance,  with  the  red  ribbon 
in  his  button-hole,  in  whom  Graham  recognized  an  ex-minister  of 
the  Emperor,  differing  from  most  of  those  at  that  day  in  his  Cab- 
inet, in  the  reputation  of  being  loyal  to  his  master  and  coura- 
geous against  a  inob. 

Left  thus  alone  with  Lemercier,  Graham  said, — 
"  Pray  tell  me  where  I  can  iind  your  friend  the  Marquis 
de  Rochebriant.  I  called  at  his  apartment  this  morn'ng,  and 
1  was  told  tliat  he  had  gone  on  some  visit  into  tlie  country 
taking  his  valet,  and  the  concierge  could  not  give  me  his  address. 
I  thought  myself  so  lucky  on  meeting  with  you,  who  are  sure 
to  know." 

"  No,  I  do  not ;  it  is  some  days  since  I  saw  Alain.  }3ut 
Duplessis  will  be  sure  to  know."  Here  the  financier  rejoined 
tliem. 

"  ATon  chtr,  Grarm  Varn  wants  to  know  for  what  Sabine 
shades  Rochebriant  has  deserted  the  * Jumumopes  strepiHt7nque^ 
of  the  capital." 

"  AJi  !  the  Marquis  is  a  friend  of  yours.  Monsieur  .'  " 
*'  I  can  scarcely  boast  that  honor,  but  he  is  an  acquaint- 
ance whom  I  should  be  ver)'  glad  to  see  again." 

"  At  this  moment  he  is  at  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon's 
comitry-  house  near  Fontaincbleau  :  I  had  a  hurried  line  from 


438 


THE  PARISIANS. 


him  two  days  ago  stating  that  he  was  going  there  on  her  urgent 
invitation.  But  he  may  return  to-morrow  ;  at  all  events  ,  he 
(lines  with  me  on  the  8th,  and  I  shall  be  charmed  if  30U  will  do 
me  the  honor  to  meet  him  at  my  house." 

"  It  is  an  invitation  too  agreeable  to  refuse,  and  I  thank 
you  very  much  for  it." 

Nothing  worth  recording  passed  further  in  conversation  be- 
tAveen  Graham  and  the  two  Frenchmen.  He  left  them  smok- 
ing their  cigars  in  the  garden,  and  walked  homeward  by  the 
Rue  de  Rivoli.  As  he  was  passing  beside  the  Magasin  du 
Louvre,  he  stopped,  and  made  way  for  a  lady  crossing  quickly 
out  of  the  shop  toward^  her  carriage  at  the  door.  Glancing  at 
him  with  a  slight  inclination  of  her  head  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  his  courtesy  the  lady  recognized  his  features. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Vane  I  "  she  cried,  almost  joyfully — ''  you  aie 
then  at  Paris,  though  you  have  not  come  see  to  me." 

"  I  only  arrived  last  night,  dear  Mrs.  Morley,"  said  Graham, 
rather  embarrassed,  "  and  only  on  some  matters  of  business 
which  unexpectedly  summoned  me.  My  stay  will  probably  be 
very  short." 

"  In  that  case  let  me  rob  you  of  a  few  minutes — no,  not  rob 
you  even  of  them  :  I  can  take  you  wherever  }'ou  want  to  go, 
and,  as  my  carriage  moves  more  quickly  than  you  do  on  foot,  I 
shall  save  you  the  minutes  instead  of  robbing  you  of  them." 

"  You  are  most  kind ;  but  I   was   only  going  to  my   hotev 
which  is  close  by." 

"  Then  you  have  no  excuse  for  not  taking  a  short  drive 
v/ith  me  in  the  Champs  i^lysdes — come.' 

'J'hus  bidden,  Graham  could  not  civilly  disobey.  He  handed 
the  fair  American  into  her  carriage,  and  seated  himself  t)y  her 
side. 


CHAPTER    III. 

•_'  Mu.Vane,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  many  apologies  to  make  for 
the  interest  in  your  life  which  my  letters  to  you  so  indiscreetly 
betrayed." 

"  Oh  Mrs.  Morley  I  you  cannot  guess  how  deeply  that  in- 
terest touched  me." 

"  I    >hould    not  have    presumed   so    far,"'    continued   Mrs. 


THE  PARISIANS.  435 

Morley,  unheeding  the  interruption,  **  if  I  had  not  been  alto- 
gcther  in  error  as  to  the  nature  of  your  sentiments  in  a  certain 
quarter.  In  this  ;you  must  blame  my  American  rearing.  With 
us  tliere  are  many  tiiriations  between  boys  and  girls  which 
come  to  nothing  ;  but  when  in  my  coimtry  a  man  Uke  you 
meets  with  a  woman  hke  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  there  cannot 
be  flirtation.  His  attentions,  his  looks,  his  manner,  reveal,  to  the 
eyes  of  those  who  care  enough  for  him  to  watch,  one  of  two  things 
— either  he  coldly  admires  and  esteems  or  he  loves  with  his  whole 
heart  and  soul  a  woman  worthy  to  inspire  such  a  love.  Well,  I 
did  watch,  and  I  was  absurdly  mistaken.  I  imagined  that 
I  saw  love,  and  rejoiced  for  the  sake  of  both  of  you  to  think  so. 
I  know  that  in  all  countries,  our  own  as  well  as  yours,  love  is  so 
morbidly  sensitive  and  jealous  that  it  is  always  apt  to  invent 
imaginary  foes  to  itself.  Esteem  and  admiration  never  do  that. 
I  thought  that  some  misunderstanding,  easily  removed  by  the 
intervention  of  a  third  person,  might  have  impeded  the  impulse 
of  two  hearts  towards  each  other, — and  so  I  wrote.  I  had 
assumed  that  you  loved— I  am  humbled  to  the  last  degree— 
you  only  admired  and  esteemed." 

"  Your  irony  is  very  keen,  Mrs.  Morley,  and  to  you  it  may 
seem  very  just." 

"  Don't  call  me  Mrs.  Morley  in  that  haughty  tone  of  voice, 
— can't  you  talk  to  me  as  you  would  talk  to  a  friend  .''  You 
only  esteemed  and  admired — there  is  an  end  of  it." 

"  No,  there  is  not  an  end  of  it,"  cried  Graham,  giving  way 
to  an  impetuosity  of  passion  which  rarely,  indeed,  before 
another,  escaped  his  self-control ;  "  the  end  of  it  to  me  is  a  life 
out  of  which  is  ever  stricken  such  love  as  I  could  feel  for  woman. 
To  me  true  love  can  only  come  once.  It  came  with  my  first 
look  on  that  fatal  face — it  has  never  left  me  in  thought  by  day, 
in  dreams  by  night.  The  end  of  it  to  me  is  farewell  to  all  such 
happiness  as  the  one  love  of  a  life  can  promise — but " 

"  But  what  .''  "  asked  Mrs.  Morley  softly,  and  veiy  much 
moved  by  the  passionate  earnestness  of  Graham's  voice  and 
words. 

"  But,"  he  continued,  with  a  forced  smile,  "  we  Englishmen 
are  trained  to  the  resistance  of  absolute  authority ;  we  cannot 
submit  all  the  elements  that  make  up  our  being  to  the  sway  of 
a  single  despot.  Love  is  the  painter  of  existence,  it  should  not 
be  its  sculptor." 

"  J  do  not  understand  the  metaphor." 

"  Lo\e  colors  our  life,  it  should  not  chisel  its  form." 

*'  My  dear  Mr.  Vane,  that  is  very  cleverly  said,   but   the 


440  THE  PARISIANS. 

human  heart  is  too  large  and  too  restless  to  be  quietly  packed 
up  in  an  aphorism.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  if  you  found 
you  had  destroyed  Isaura  Cicogna's  happiness  as  well  as  re- 
signed your  own,  that  thought  would  not  somewhat  deform  the 
very  shape  you  would  give  to  your  life?  Is  it  color  alone  that 
vour  life  would  lose?  " 

"Ah,  Mrs.  Morley,  do  not  lower  your  friend  into  an  ordi- 
nary girl  in  whom  idleness  exaggerates  the  strength  of  any  fancy 
o\er  which  it  dreamily  broods.  Isaura  Cicogna  has  her  occupa- 
tions— her  genius — her  fame — her — career.  Honestly  speak- 
ing, I  think  that  in  these  she  will  find  a  happiness  that  no  quiet 
hearth  could  bestow.  I  will  say  no  more.  I  feel  persuaded 
that  were  we  two  united  I  could  not  make  her  happy.  With 
the  irresistible  impulse  that  urges  the  genius  of  the  writer 
towards  its  vent  in  public  sympathy  and  applause,  she  would 
chafe  if  I  said,  '  Be  contented  to  be  wholly  mine.'  And  if  I 
said  it  not,  and  felt  I  had  no  right  to  say  it,  and  allowed  the 
full  scope  to  her  natural  ambition,  what  then  ?  She  would 
chafe  yet  more  to  find  that  I  had  no  fellowship  in  her  aims  and 
ends — that  where  I  should  feel  pnde  I  felt  humiliation.  It 
would  be  so  ;   I  cannot  help  it:  'tis  my  nature," 

"  So  be  it,  then.  Wheii  next  year  perhaps  you  visit  Paris, 
you  will  be  safe  from  my  officious  interference — Isaura  will 
be  the  wife  of  another." 

Graham  pressed  his  hand  to  his  heart  with  the  sudden 
movement  of  one  who  feels  tliere  an  agonizing  spasm — liis 
cheek,  his  ven,'  lips  were  bloodless. 

" I  told  \ou,"  he  said  bitterly,  " that  your  fears  of  my  in- 
fluence over  the  happiness  of  one  so  gifted,  and  so  strong  in 
such  gifts,  were  groundless  ;  you  allow  that  I  should  be  very 
soon  forgotten." 

"  I  allow  no  such  thing  :  I  wish  I  could.  But  do  you  know 
so  little  of  a  woman's  heart  (  and,  in  matters  of  heart,  I  nevei 
yet  heard  that  genius  had  a  talisman  against  emotion), — do  you 
know  so  little  of  a  woman's  heart  as  not  to  know  that  the  very 
moment  in  which  she  may  accept  a  marriage  the  least  fitted  to 
render  her  happy  is  that  in  which  she  has  lost  all  hope  of  happi- 
ness in  another  ?  " 

"  Is  it  indeed  so  ?  "  murmured  Graham.  "  Ay,  I  can  con- 
ceive it." 

"And  have  yon  so  little  comprehension  of  the  necessities 
which  that  fame,  that  career  to  which  you  allow  she  is  impelled 
by  the  instincts  of  genius,  impose  on  this  girl,  young,  beautiful, 
failv.'rless,  motherless  ?     No  matter  how  pure  her  Ufe,  can  sb« 


THE  PARISfAA'S.  44, 

guard  it  from  the  slander  of  envious  tongues  ?  Will  not  all  her 
truest  friends — would  not  you  if  you  were  her  brother — press 
upon  her,  by  all  the  arguments  that  have  most  weight  with  the 
woman  who  asserts  independence  in  her  modes  of  life  and  yet 
is  wise  enough  to  know  that  the  world  can  only  judge  of  virtue 
by  its  shadow,  reputation,  not  to  dispense  with  the  protection 
which  a  husband  can  alone  secure  ?  And  that  is  why  I  warn 
you,  if  it  be  yet  time,  that  in  resigning  your  own  happiness  you 
may  destroy  Isaura's.  She  will  wed  another,  but  she  will  not 
be  happy.  What  a  chimera  of  dread  your  egotism  as  man  con- 
jures up  !  Oh,  forsooth,  the  equalities  that  charm  and  delight 
the  world  are  to  unfit  a  woman  to  be  helpmate  to  a  man  !  Fie 
on  you  ! — fie  !  " 

Whatever  answer  Graham  might  have  made  to  these  im- 
passioned reproaches  was  here  checked. 

Two  men  on  horseback  stopped  the  carriage.  One  was 
Enjjuerrand  de  Vandemar  the  other  was  the  Alsfcrine  colone 
whom  we  met  at  the  supper  given  at  the  Maison  Doree  by 
Frederic  Lemercier. 

"  Pardon,  Madame  Morley,"  said  Enguerrand,  "  but  there 
are  symptoms  of  a  mob-epidemic  a  little  farther  up  :  the  fever 
began  at  Belleville,  and  is  threatening  the  health  of  the 
Champs  Elysees.  Don't  be  alarmed — it  may  be  nothing, 
though  it  may  be  much.  In  Paris,  one  can  never  calcufate  an 
hour  beforehand  the  exact  progress  of  a  politico-epidemic  fever. 
At  present  I  say, '  Bah  !  a  pack  of  ragged  boys,  gamins  de  Paris  ; ' 
but  my  friend  the  Colonel,  twisting  his  moustache  en  sonriant 
amerement^  says,  '  It  is  the  indignation  of  Paris  at  the  apathy  of 
the  government  under  insult  to  the  honor  of  France;'  and 
Heaven  only  knows  how  rapidly  French  gamins  grow  into 
giants  when  colonels  talk  about  the  indignation  of  Paris  and 
the  honor  of  France  !  " 

"  But  what  has  happen'ed  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Morley,  turning  to 
the  Colonel. 

"  Madame,"  replied  the  warrior,  "  it  is  rumored  that  the 
King  of  Prussia  has  turned  his  back  upon  the  Ambassadoi 
of  France,  and  that  the  pekin  who  is  for  peace  at  any  price — ■ 
M.  Ollivier — will  say  to-morrow  in  the  Chamber  that  France 
submits  to  a  slap  in  the  face." 

"  Please,  Monsieur  de  Vandemar,  to  tell  my  coachmarx  to 
drive  home,"  said  Mrs.  Morley. 

The  carriage  turned  and  went  homeward.  The  Colonel 
lifted  his  hat,  and  rode  back  to  see  what  the  gamins  were  about. 


^42  THE  PARISIANS. 

Engvierrand,  wlio  had  no  interest  in  the  gamins,  and  who  looked 
on  the  Colonel  as  a  bore,  rode  by  the  side  of  the  carriage. 

"  Is  there  anything  serious  in  this  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Morley. 

"  At  this  moment,  nothing.  What  it  may  be  this  hour  to- 
morrow I  cannot  say.  Ah,  Monsieur  Vane,  bon-Jour — I  did 
not  recognize  you  at  first.  Once,  in  a  visit  at  the  chateau  of 
one  of  your  distinguished  countrymen,  I  saw  two  gamecocks 
turned  out  facing  each  other  :  they  needed  no  pretext  for 
quarrelling — neither  do  France  and  Prussia — no  matter  which 
game-cock  gave  the  first  offence,  the  two  game-cocks  must  have 
it  out.  All  tliat  Ollivier  can  do,  if  he  be  wise,  is  to  see  that 
the  French  cock  has  his  steel  spurs  as  long  as  the  Prussian's. 
But  this  I  dx)  say,  that  if  Ollivier  attempts  to  put  the  French 
cock  back  into  its  bag,  the  Empire  is  gone  in  fort}'-eight  hours, 
'J'hat  to  me  is  a  trifle — I  care  nothing  for  the  Empire  ;  but  that 
which  is  not  a  trifle  is  anarchy  and  chaos.  Better  war  and  the 
Empire  than  peace  and  Jules  Favre.  But  let  us  seize  the 
present  hour,  Monsieur  Vane  ;  whatever  happens  to-morrow, 
shall  we  dine  together  to-day  .''  name  your  restaurant." 

"  I  am  so  grieved,"  answered  Graham,  rousing  himself — "I 
am  here  only  on  business,  and  engaged  all  the  evening." 

"What  a  w^onderful  thing  is  this  life  of  ours  !  "  said  Enguer- 
rand.  "  The  destiny  of  France  at  this  moment  hangs  on  a 
thread — I,  a  Frenchman,  say  to  an  English  friend,  *  Let  us  dine 
— a  cutlet  to-day  and  a  fig  for  to-morrow  ;  '  and  my  English 
friend,  distinguished  native  of  a  country  with  which  we  have 
the  closest  alliance,  tells  me  that  in  this  crisis  of  France  he  has 
business  to  attend  to  !  My  father  is  quite  right ;  he  accepts 
the  Voltairean  philosophy,  and  cries,   Vivent  les  indifferents  !'' 

"  My  dear  M.  de  Vandemar,"  said  Graham,  "  in  every  coun- 
try you  will  find  the  same  thing.  All  individuals  massed  to- 
gether constitute  public  life.  Each  individual  has  a  life  of  his 
own,  the  claims  and  the  habits  and  the  needs  of  which  do  not 
suppress  his  sympathies  with  public  life,  but  imperiously  over- 
rule them.  Mrs.  Morley,  permit  me  to  pull  the  check-string — 
I  get  out  here." 

"  I  like  that  man,"  said  Enguerrand,  as  he  continued  to 
ride  by  the  fair  American;  "in  language  and  esprit  he  is  so 
P>ench." 

"  I  used  to  like  him  better  than  you  can,"  answered  Mrs. 
Morley  ;  "  but  in  prejudice  and  stupidity  he  is  so  English.  As 
it  .seems  you  are  disengaged,  come  and  partake,/^/  an  feu,  with 
Frank  and  me." 

"  Channcd  to  do  so,"  answered  the  cleverest  and  best-bred 


THE  PARISIANS.  443 

of  all  Parisian  beau  garcons ;  "  but  forgive  me  if  I  quit  you 
soon.  This  poor  France  !  Jintre  nous,  I  am  very  uneasy  about 
the  Parisian  fever.  I  must  run  away  after  dinner  to  clubs  and 
cafes  to  learn  the  last  bulletins." 

"  We  have  nothing  like  that  French  Legitimist  in  the 
States,"  said  the  fair  American  to  herself,  "  unless  we  should 
ever  be  so  silly  as  to  make  Legitimists  of  the  ruined  gentlemen 
of  the  South." 

Meanwhile  Graham  Vane  went  slowly  back  to  his  apart- 
ment. No  false  excuse  had  he  made  to  Enguerrand  ;  this  even- 
ing was  devoted  to  M.  Renard,  who  told  him  little  he  had  not 
known  before  ;  but  his  private  life  overruled  his  public — and 
all  that  night  he,  professed  politician,  thought  sleeplessly,  not 
over  the  crisis  to  France,  which  might  alter  the  conditions  of 
Europe,  but  the  talk  on  his  private  life  of  that  intermeddling 
American  woman. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

The  next  day,  Wednesday,  July  6th,  commenced  one  of 
those  eras  in  the  world's  history  in  which  private  life  would 
vainly  boast  that  it  Overrules  Life  Public.  How  many  private 
lives  does  such  a  terrible  time  influence,  absorb,  darken  witli 
sorrow,  crush  into  graves  ! 

It  was  the  day  when  the  Due  de  Gramont  uttered  the  fatal 
speech  which  determined  the  die  between  peace  and  war.  No 
one  not  at  Paris  on  that  day  can  conceive  the  popular  enthusi- 
asm with  which  that  speech  was  hailed — the  greater  because  the 
warlike  tone  of  it  was  not  anticipated  ;  because  there  had  been 
a  rumor  amidst  circles  the  best  informed  that  a  speech  of  pa- 
cific moderation  was  to  be  the  result  of  the  Imperial  Council. 
Rapturous  indeed  were  the  applauses  with  which  the  sentences 
that  breathed  haughty  defiance  were  hailed  by  the  Assembly. 
The  ladies  in  the  tribune  rose  with  one  accord,  waving  their 
liandkerchiefs.  Tall,  stalwart,  dark,  with  Roman  features  and 
lofty  presence,  the  Minister  of  France  seemed  to  say,  with  Cat- 
aline  in  the  fine  tragedy,  "  Lo  !  where  I  stand,  I  am  war  !  " 

Paris  had  been  hungering  for  some  hero  of  the  hour — the 
Due  de  Gramont  became  at  once  raised  to  that  eminence. 

All  the  journals,  save  the  very  few  which  were  friendly  to 


444  ^^^  PARISIANS. 

peace  because  hostile  to  the  Kmperor,  resounded  with  praise, 
not  only  of  the  speech,  but  of  the  speaker.  It  is  with  a  melan- 
choly sense  of  amusement  that  one  recalls  now  to  mind  those 
organs  of  public  opinion — with  what  romantic  fondness  they 
dwelt  on  the  personal  graces  of  the  man  who  had  at  last  given 
voice  to  the  chivalry  of  France — "the  charming  gravity  of  his 
countenance — the  mysterious  expression  of  his  eye  !  " 

As  the  crowd  poured  from  the  Chambers,  Victor  de  Mau- 
Idon  and  Savarin,  who  had  been  among  the  listeners,  encoun- 
tered. 

"  No  chance  for  my  friends  the  Orleanists  now,"  said  Sa- 
varin. "  You  who  mock  at  all  parties  are,  I  suppose,  at  heart 
for  the  Republican — small  chance,  too,  for  that." 

"  I  do  not  agree  with  you.  Violent  impulses  have  quick 
reactions." 

"  But  what  reaction  could  shake  the  Emperor  after  he  re- 
turns a  conqueror,  bringing  in  his  pocket  the  left  bank  of  the 
Rliine .?  " 

"  None — when  he  does  tliat.  Will  he  do  it .-'  Does  he  him- 
self think-  he  will  do  it  ?     I  doubt " 

"  Doubt  the  French  arniv  against  the  Prussian  ? " 

"  Against  the  German  people  united — yes,  very  much." 

"  But  war  will  disunite  the  German  people.  Bavaria  will 
surely  assist  us — Hanover  will  rise  against  the  spoliator — Aus- 
tria at  our  first  successes  must  shake  off  her  present  enforced 
neutrality." 

"  You  have  not  been  in  Germany,  and  I  have.  What  yes- 
terday was  a  Prussian  army,  to-morrow  will  be  a  German  pop- 
ulation, far  exceeding  our  own  in  numbers,  in  hardihood  of 
body,  in  cultivated  intellect,  in  military  discipline.  But  talk 
of  something  else.  How  is  my  ex-editor — poor  Gustave  Ra- 
mean  ?  " 

"  Still  ver}'  weak,  but  on  the  mend.  You  may  have  him 
back  in  his  office  soon." 

"  Impossible  !  even  in  his  sickbed  his  vanity  was  more 
vigorous  than  ever.  He  issued  a  war-song,  which  has  gone  the 
round  of  the  war  journals,  signed  by  his  own  name.  He  must 
have  known  very  well  that  the  name  of  such  a  Tyrtaeus  cannot 
reajijiear  as  the  editor  of  ''  Le  S^ns  Commun;'  that  in  launching 
his  little  firebrand  he  burned  all  vessels  that  could  waft  him  back 
to  the  port  he  had  quitted.  But  I  daresay  he  has  done  well 
for  his  own  interests  ;  I  doubt  if  '  Le  Sens  Commun  '  can  much 
longer  hold  its  ground  in  the  midst  of  the  prevalent  lunacy." 


THE  PARISIANS.  44^ 

"  What !  it  has  lost  subscribers  ? — gone  oil  in  sale  already, 
since  it  declared  for  peace  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  has ;  and  after  the  article  which,  if  I  live  over 
to-night,  will  appear  to-morrow,  I  should  wonder  if  it  sell 
enough  to  cover  the  cost  of  the  print  and  paper." 

"  Martyr  to  principle  !     I  revere,  but  I  do  not  envy  thee." 

"  Mart)'rdoni  is  not  my  ambition.  If  Louis  Napoleon  be 
defeated,  what  then  ?  Perhaps  he  may  be  the  martyr  ;  and  the 
Fa\  res  and  Gambettas  may  roast  their  own  eggs  on  the  grid- 
iron they  heat  for  his  Majesty." 

Here  an  English  gentleman,  who  was  the  very  able  corres- 
pondent to  a  very  eminent  journal,  and  in  that  capacity  had 
made  acquaintance  with  De  Mauleon,  joined  the  two  French- 
men ;  Savarin,  however,  after  an  exchange  of  salutations,  went 
his  way. 

"  May  I  ask  a  frank  answer  to  a  somewhat  rude  question, 
M.  le  Vicomte  }  "  said  the  Englishman.  "  Suppose  that  the 
Imperial  Government  had  to-day  given  in  their  adhesion  to 
the  peace  party,  how  long  would  it  have  been  before  their  ora- 
tors in  the  Chamber  and  their  organs  in  the  press  would  have 
said  that  France  was  governed  hy  poltrons  !  " 

"  Probably  for  most  of  the  twenty-four  hours.  But  there  are 
a  few  who  are  honest  in  their  convictions  ;  of  that  few  I  am 
one." 

"And  would  have  supported  the  Emperor  and  his  govern 
ment  .''  " 

"  No,  Monsieur — I  do  not  say  that." 

"  Then  the  Emperor  would  have  turned  many  friends  into 
enemies,  and  no  enemies  into  friends  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,  you  in  England  know  that  a  party  in  opposition 
is  not  propitiated  when  the  party  in  power  steals  its  measures. 
Ha  ! — pardon  me,  who  is  that  gentleman,  evidently  your  country 
man,  whom  I  see  yonder  talking  to  the  Secretary  of  your  Em- 
bassy .? " 

"  He  ? — Mr.  Vane — Graham  Vane.  Do  you  know  him  1 
He  has  been  much  in  Paris,  attached  to  our  Embassy  formerly  ; 
a  clever  man — much  is  expected  from  him." 

"  Ah  !  I  think  I  have  seen  him  before,  but  am  not  quite 
sure.  Did  you  say  Vane  ?  I  once  knew  a  Monsieur  Vane,  a 
distinguished  Parliamentary  orator." 

"  That  gentleman  is  his  son.  Would  you  like  to  be  intro- 
duced to  him  ?  " 

"  Not  to-day — I  am  in  some  hurry."  Here  Victor  lifted 
his  hat  in  parting  salutation,  and  as  he  walked  away  cast   at 


446 


THE  PARISIANS. 


Graham  another  glance,  keen  and  scrutinizing.  "  I  have  seen 
that  man  before,"  he  mattered  :  "  where  ? — when  ?  can  it  be 
only  a  family  likeness  to  the  father  ?  No,  the  features  are 
different ;  the  profile  is — ha  ! — Mr.  Lamb.  Mr.  Lamb — but 
why  call  himself  by  that  name  i* — why  disguised  ? — what  can 
he  have  to  do  with  poor  Louise  ?  Bah !— these  are  not  ques- 
tions I  can  think  of  now.  This  war — this  war — can  it  yet  be 
prevented  ?  How  it  will  prostrate  all  the  plans  my  ambition 
so  carefully  schemed !  Oh  !  at  least,  if  I  were  but  in  the 
Chambre  !  Perhaps  I  may  be  before  the  war  is  ended — the 
Chavignys  have  great  interest  in  their  department." 


CHAPTER  V. 


GraV3j:m  had  left  a  note  with  Rochebriant's  concierge,  re- 
questing an  interview  on  the  Marquis's  return  to  Paris  ;  and 
on  the  evening  after  the  day  just  commemorated  he  received  a 
line,  saying  that  Alain  had  come  back,  and  would  be  at  home 
at  nine  o'clock.  Graham  found  himself  in  the  Breton's  apart- 
ment punctually  at  the  hour  indicated. 

Alain  was  in  high  spirits  :  he  burst  at  once  into  enthusi- 
astic exclamations  on  the  viftual  announcement  of  war. 

"  Congratulate  me,  mon  cher !"  he  cried — "the  news  was  a 
joyous  surprise  to  me.  Only  so  recently  as  yesterday  morn- 
ing I  was  under  the  gloomy  apprehension  that  the  Lnperial 
Cabinet  would  continue  to  back  Ollivier's  craven  declaration 
*  that  France  had  not  been  affronted  ! '  The  Duchesse  de 
Tarascon,  at  whose  campagne  I  was  a  guest,  is  (as  you  doubtless 
know)  very  much  in  the  confidence  of  the  Tuileries.  On  the 
first  signs  of  war  I  wrote  to  her,  saying  that  whatever  the 
objections  of  my  pride  to  enter  the  army  as  a  private  in  times 
of  peace,  such  objections  ceased  on  the  moment  when  all  dis- 
tinctions of  France  must  vanish  in  the  eyes  of  sons  eager  to 
defend  her  banners.  The  Duchesse,  in  reply,  begged  me  to 
come  to  her  campagne  and  talk  over  the  matter.  I  went  ;  she 
iJicn  said  that  if  war  should  break  out  it  was  the  intention  to 
organize  the  Mobiles  and  officer  them  with  men  of  birth  and 
education,  irrespective  of  previous  military  service,  and  in  that 
case  I  might  count  on  my  epaulets.  But  only  two  nights  ago 
she  received  a  letter — 1  know  not,  of  course,  from  whom — evi* 


THE  PARISIANS.  447 

detitly  from  some  high  authority — tliat  induced  her  to  think  the 
moderation  of  the  Council  would  avert  the  war  and  leave  the 
swords  of  the  Mobiles  in  their  sheaths.  I  suspect  th-e  decision 
of  yesterday  must  have  been  a  very  sudden  one.  Ce  cher  Gra- 
mont  /  See  what  it  is  to  have  a  well-born  man  in  a  sovereign's 
councils." 

"  If  war  must  come,  I  at  least  wish  all  renown  to  yourself. 
But " 

i'  Oh,  spare  me  your  *  biits  ; '  the  English  are  always  too  full 
of  them  where  their  own  interests  do  not  appeal  to  them.  TJiey 
had  no  '  buts '  for  war  in  India  or  a  march  into  Abyssmia.  ' 

Alain  spoke  petulantly  ;  at  that  moment  the  French  were 
very  much  irritated  by  the  monitory  tone  of  the  English  jour- 
nals. GraJiam  prudently  avoided  the  chance  of  rousing  the 
wrath  of  a  young  hero  yearning  for  his  epaulets. 

*'  I  am  English  enough,"  said  he,  with  good-humored  cour- 
tesy, "  to  care  for  English  interests  ;  and  England  has  no  in- 
terest abroad  dearer  to  her  than  the  welfare  and  dignity  of 
France.  And  now  let  me  tell  you  why  I  presumed  on  an 
acquaintance  less  intimate  than  I  could  desire,  to  solicit  this 
interview  on  a  matter  whicJi  concerns  myself,  and  in  which  you 
could  perhaps  render  me  a  considerable  service." 

"  If  I  can,  count  it  rendered.  Move  to  this  sofa,  join  me 
in  a  cigar,  and  let  us  talk  at  ease  conime  de  vieux  amis  whose 
fathers  or  brothers  might  have  fought  side  by  side  in  the 
Crimea."  Graham  removed  to  the  sofa  beside  Rochebriant, 
and,  after  one  or  two  whiffs,  laid  aside  the  cigar  and  began  : 

"  Among  the  correspondence  which  Monsieur  your  father 
has  left,  are  there  any  letters  of  no  distant  date  signed  Marigny 
— Madame  Marigny  ?  Pardon  me  ;  I  should  state  my  motive 
in  putting  this  question.  I  am  intrusted  with  a  charge,  the 
fulfilment  of  which  may  prove  to  the  benefit  of  this  lady  or  her 
child  ;  such  fulfilment  is  a  task  imposed  upon  my  honor.  But 
all  the  researches  to  discover  this  lady  which  I  have  instituted 
stop  at  a  certain  date  with  this  information, — viz.,  that  she  cor- 
responded occasionally  with  the  late  Marquis  de  Rochebriant, 
that  he  habitually  preserved  the  letters  of  his  correspondents, 
and  that  these  letters  were  severally  transmitted  to  you  at  his 
decease." 

Alain's  face  had  taken  a  very  grave  expression  while  Gra- 
ham spoke,  and  he  now  replied  with  a  mixture  of  haughtiness 
and  embarrassment — 

"  The  boxes  containing  the  letters  my  father  received  and 
preserved  were  sent  to   me  as   you   say — ^the   larger   p()rtion  of 


448  THE  PARISIAN.^. 

Uiem  -^-ere  from  ladies — sorted  and  labelled,  so  that  in  srlancins 
at  any  letter  in  each  packet  I  could  judge  of  the  general  tenor 
of  those  in  the  same  packet,  without  the  necessity  of  reading 
them.  All  packets  of  that  kind,  Monsieur  Vane,  I  burned.  I 
do  not  remember  any  letters  signed  Marigny." 

"  I  perfectly  understand,  my  dear  Marquis,  that  you  w^uld 
destroy  all  letters  which  your  father  himself  would  have  de- 
stroyed if  his  last  illness  had  been  sufficiently  prolonged.  But 
I  do  not  think  the  letters  I  mean  would  have  come  under  that 
classification ;  probably  they  were  short,  and  on  matters  of 
business  relating  to  some  third  person,  some  person  for  in- 
stance, of  the  name  of  Louise,  or  of  Duval." 

"  Stop  !  let  me  think.  I  have  a  vague  remembrance  of  one 
or  two  letters  which  rather  perplexed  me  ;  they  were  labelled 

'  Louise  D ,     Mem,  :  to  make  further  inquiries  as  to  the 

fate  of  her  uncle.'  " 

"  Marquis,  those  are  the  letters  I  seek.  Thank  Heaven, 
you  have  not  destroyed  them  !  " 

"  No  ;  there  was  no  reason  why  I  should  destroy,  though  I 
really  cannot  state  precisely  any  reason  why  I  kept  them.  I 
have  a  very  vague  recollection  of  their  existence." 

"  I  entreat  you  to  allow  me  at  least  to  glance  at  the  hand- 
writing and  compare  it  with  that  of  a  letter  I  have  about 
me ;  and  if  the  several  handwritings  correspond,  I  would  ask 
you  to  let  me  have  the  address,  which,  according  to  your 
father's  memorandum,  will  be  found  in  the  letters  you  have  pre- 
served." 

"  To  compliance  with  such  a  request  I  not  only  cannot 
demur,  but  perhaps  it  may  free  me  from  some  responsibility 
which  I  might  have  thought  the  letters  devolved  upon  my 
executorship.  I  am  sure  they  did  not  concern  the  honor  of 
any  woman  of  any  family,  for  in  that  case  I  must  have  burned 
them." 

"  Ah,  Marquis,,  shake  hands  there  !  In  such  concord  be- 
tween man  and  man  there  is  more  entente  cordiale  between  Eng- 
land and  France  than  there  was  at  Sebastopol.  Nv^w  let  me 
compare  the  handwritings." 

"  The  box  that  contained  the  letters  is  not  here — I  left  it  at 
Kochebriant.  I  will  telegraph  to  my  aunt  to  send  it  ;  the 
day  after  to-morrow  it  will  no  doubt  arrive.  Breakfast  with  me 
that  day — say  at  one-o'clock — and  after  breakfast,  the  box  !  " 

"  How  can  I  thank  you  ?  " 

"  Thank  me  !  but  you  said  your  honor  was  concerned  in 
your  request.     Requests  affecting  honor  between  men  comvieil^ 


THE  PARISIANS. 


449 


faut  is  a  ceremony,  )f  course,  like  a  bow  between  them,  (^ne 
bows,  the  other  returns  the  bow — no  thanks  on  either  side. 
Now  that  we  have  done  with  that  matter,  let  me  say  that  I 
tliought  your  wish  for  our  interview  originated  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent cause." 

"  What  could  that  be  ?  " 

"Nay,  do  you  not  recollect  that  last  talk  between  us,  when 
with  such  loyalty  you  spoke  to  me  about  Mademoiselle  Cicogna, 
and,  supposing  that  there  might  be  rivalship  between  us,  re- 
tracted all  that  you  might  have  before  said  to  warn  me  against 
fostering  the  sentiment  with  which  she  had  inspired  me,  even 
at  the  first  slight  glance  of  a  face  which  cannot  be  lightly  for- 
gotten by  those  who  have  once  seen  it  ? " 

"I  recollect  perfectly  every  word  of  that  talk.  Marquis," 
answered  Graham  calmly,  but  with  his  hand  concealed  within 
his  vest  and  pressed  tightly  to  his  heart.  The  warning  of  Mrs. 
Morley  flashed  upon  him.  "Was  this  the  man  to  seize  the 
prize  he  iiad  put  aside — this  man,  younger  than  himself,  hand- 
somer than  himself,  higher  in  rank  .''  " 

"  I  recollect  that  talk,  Marquis.     Well,  what  then  ? " 

"  In  my  self-conceit  1  supposed  that  you  might  have  heard 
how  muhh  I  admired  Mademoiselle  Cicogna — how,  having  not 
long  since  met  her  at  the  house  of  Duplessis  (who,  by  the  way, 
writes  me  word  that  I  shall  meet  you  chcz  ////to-morrow),  I  have 
since  sought  her  society  wherever  there  was  a  chance  to  find  it. 
You  may  have  heard  at  our  club,  or  elsewhere,  how  1  adore  her 
genius — how  I  say  that  nothing  so  Breton — that  is,  so  pure  and 
so  lofty — has  appeared  and  won  readers  since  the  days  of 
Chateaubriand, — and  you,  knowing  that  les  absents  out  toujours 
tort,  come  to  me  and  ask,  '  Monsieur  de  Rochebriant,  are  we 
rivals  ? '  I  expected  a  challenge  :  you  relieve  my  mind — you 
abandon  the  field  to  me  t  " 

At  the  first  I  warned  the  reader  how  improved  from  his 
old  maiivaise  hoiite  a  year  or  so  of  Paris  life  would  make  our 
beau  Marquis.  How  a  year  or  two  of  London  life,  with  its 
horsey  slang  and  its  fast  girls  of  the  period,  would  hav'^e  vulgar- 
ized an  English  Rochebriant ! 

Graham  gnawed  his  lips,  and  replied  quietly,  "  I  do  not 
challenge  !     Am  I  to  congratulate  you  ? " 

"  No  :  that  brilliant  victory  is  not  for  me,  I  thought  that 
was  made  clear  in  the  conversation  I  have  referred  to.  But 
if  you  have  done  me  the  honor  to  be  jealous,  I  am  exceed- 
ingly flattered.  Speaking  seriously,  if  I  admired  Mademoi- 
selle Cicogna    when   you   and  I  last   met,  the  admiration   is 


^^o  THE  PARISIANS. 

increased  by  the  respect  with  which  I  regard  a  character  so 
simply  noble.  How  many  women  older  than  she  would  have 
been  spoiled  by  the  adulation  that  has  followed  her  literary 
success ! — how  few  women  so  young,  placed  in  a  position  Sv5 
critical,  having  the  courage  to  lead  a  life  so  independent  would 
have  maintained  the  dignity  of  their  character  free  from  a 
single  indiscretion  !  I  speak  not  from  my  own  knowledge,  but 
from  the  report  of  all,  who  would  be  pleased  enough  to  censure 
if  they  could  find  a  cause.  Good  society  is  the  paradise  of 
viauvaises  langues.^'' 

Graham  caught  Alain's  hand  and  pressed  it,  but  made  no 
an<;wer. 

The  young  Marquis  continued, — 

"  You  will  pardon  me  for  speaking  thus  freely  in  the  way 
th;  t  I  would  wish  any  friend  to  speak  of  the  ^t^wi^/i-f//*?  who  might 
berome  my  wife.  I  owe  you  much,  not  only  for  the  loyalty 
wi<h  which  you  addressed  me  in  reference  to  this  young  lady, 
but  for  words  affecting  my  own  position  in  France,  which  sank 
deep  into  my  mind — saved  me  from  deeming  myself  a  pfoscrit 
in  my  own  land — filled  me  with  a  manly  ambition,  not  stifled 
apudst  the  thick  of  many  effeminate  follies — and,  in  fact,  led  me 
to  the  career  which  is  about  to  open  before  me,  and  in  which  my 
ancestors  have  left  me  no  undistinguished  examples.  Let  us 
speak,  then,  a  cour  Ruvert,  as  one  friend  to  another.  Has  there 
been  any  misunderstanding  between  you  and  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna  which  has  delayed  your  return  to  Paris  1  If  so,  is  it 
over  now  .-•  " 

'•  There  has  been  no  such  misunderstanding." 

"  Do  you  doubt  whether  the  sentiments  you  expressed  in 
regard  to  her  when  we  met  last  year  are  returned  .^  " 

"  I  have  no  right  to  conjecture  her  sentiments.  You  mis- 
take altogether." 

*'  I  do  not  believe  that  I  am  dunce  enough  to  mistake  your 
feelings  towards  Mademoiselle — they  may  be  read  in  your  face 
at  this  moment.  Of  course  I  do  not  presume  to  hazard  a  conjec- 
ture as  to  those  of  Mademoiselle  towards  yourself.  But  when 
I  met  her,  not  long  since,  at  the  house  of  Duplessis,  with  whose 
daughter  she  is  intimate,  I  chanced  to  speak  to  her  of  you,  and, 
if  I  may  judge  by  looks  and  manner,  I  chose  no  displeasing 
theme.     You  turn  away — I  offend  you  ?  " 

*'  Offend  !  no  indeed  ;  but  on  this  subject  I  am  not  prepared  tt» 
converse.     I  came  to  Paris  on  matters  of  business  much  com 
plicated   and  which   ought  to  absorb  my   attention.     The   day 
after  to-morrow,  then,  I  will  be  with  you  at  one  o'clock." 


THE  PARISIANS. 


45  » 


"Yes  I  hope  then  to  have  the  letters  you  wish  to  consult ; 
and,  meanwhile,  we  meet  to-morrow  at  the  Hotel  Duplessis." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Graham  had  scarcely  quitted  Alain,  and  the  young  Marquis 
was  about  to  saunter  forth  to  his  club,  when  Duplessis  was  an- 
nounced. 

These  two  men  had  naturally  seen  much  of  each  other 
since  Duplessis  had  returned  fromBretagne  and  delivered  Alain 
from  the  grip  of  Louvier.  Scarcely  had  a  day  passed  but 
what  Alain  had  been  summoned  to  enter  into  the  financier's 
plans  for  the  aggrandizement  of  the  Rochebriant  estates,  and 
delicately  made  to  feel  that  he  had  become  a  partner  in  specula- 
tions which,  thanks  to  the  capital  and  the  abilities  Duplessis 
brought  to  bear,  seemed  likely  to  result  in  the  ultimate  free- 
dom of  his  property  from  all  burdens,  and  the  restoration  of  his 
inheritance  to  a  splendor  correspondent  with  the  dignity  of  his 
rank. 

On  the  plea  that  his  mornings  were  chiefly  devoted  to  pro- 
fessional business,  Duplessis  arranged  that  these  consultations 
should  take  place  in  the  evenings.  From  those  consultations 
Valerie  was  not  banished  ;  Duplessis  took  her  into  the  council 
as  a  matter  of  course.  "Valerie,"  said  the  financier  to  Alain, 
"  though  so  young,  has  a  very  clear  head  for  business  ;  and  she 
is  so  interested  in  all  that  interests  myself,  that,  even  where  I 
do  not  take  her  opinion,  I  at  least  feel  my  own  made  livelier 
and  brighter  by  her  sympathy." 

So  the  girl  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  her  work  or  her  book 
into  the  cabinet  de  travail,  and  never  obtruding  a  suggestion  un- 
asked— still,  when  appealed  to,  speaking  with  a  modest  good 
sense  which  justified  her  father's  confidence  and  praise;  and  apro- 
pos of  her  book,  she  had  taken  Chateaubriand  into  peculiar  favor, 
Alain  had  respectfully  presented  to  her  beautifully  bound  copies 
of  "  Atala  "  and  "  Le  Genie  du  Christianisme  ;  "  it  was  astonish- 
ing indeed,  how  he  had  already  contrived  to  regulate  her  tastes 
in  literature.  The  charms  of  those  quiet  family  evenings  had 
stolen  into  the  young  Breton's  heart. 

He  yearned  for  none  of  the  gayer  reunions  in  which  he  had 
before  sought  for  a  pleasure  that  his  nature  had  not  found  ;  for 


452  THE  PARISIANS. 

amidst  the  amusements  of  Paris,  Alain  remained  intensely  Breton 
— viz.,  formed  eminently  for  the  simple  joys  of  domestic  life, 
associating  the  sacred  hearthstone  with  the  antique  reli^on  of 
his  fathers,  gathering  round  it  all  the  images  of  pure  and 
noble  affections  which  the  romance  of  a  poetic  temperament 
had  evoked  from  the  solitude  which  had  surrounded  a  melan- 
choly boyhood,  an  uncontaminated  youth. 

Duplessis  entered  abruptly,  and  with  a  countenance  much 
disturbed  from  its  wonted  saturnine  composure. 

"  Marquis,  what  is  this  I  have  heard  from  the  Duchesse  de 
Tarascon  .''  Can  it  be?  You  ask  military  service  in  this  ilb 
omened  war  ? — you  1  " 

"  My  dear  and  best  friend,"  said  Alain,  very  much  startled, 
"  I  should  have  thought  that  you,  of  all  men  in  the  world, 
would  have  most  approved  of  my  request — you,  so  devoted  an 
Imperialist, — you  indignant  that  the  representative  of  one  of 
those  families,  which  the  First  Napoleon  so  eagerly  and  so 
vainly  courted  should  ask  for  the  grade  of  sous-lieutenant  in 
the  armies  of  Napoleon  the  Third, — you,  who  of  all  men  know 
how  ruined  are  the  fortunes  of  a  Rochebriant, — you  feel  sur- 
prised that  he  clings  to  the  noblest  heritage  his  ancestors  have 
left  to  him — their  sword  !     I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  Marquis,"  said  Duplessis,  seating  himself,  and  regarding 
Alain  with  a  look  in  which  were  blended  the  sort  of  admiration 
and  the  sort  of  contempt  with  which  a  practical  man  of  the 
world  who,  having  himself  gone  through  certain  credulous  follies, 
has  learned  to  despise  the  follies,  but  retains  a  reminiscence  of 
s_\nnpathy  with  the  fools  they  bewitch, — "  Marquis,  pardon  me  ; 
you  talk  finely,  but  you  do  not  talk  common  sense,  I  should 
be  extremely  pleased  if  your  Legitimist  scruples  had  allowed  you 
to  solicit,  or  rather  to  accept,  a  civil  appointment  not  unsuited 
to  your  rank,  under  the  ablest  sovereign,  as  a  civilian,  to  whom 
France  can  look  for  rational  liberty  combined  with  established 
order.  Such  openings  to  a  suitable  career  you  have  rejected  ; 
but  who  on  earth  could  expect  you,  never  trained  to  military 
service,  to  draw  a  sword  hitherto  sacred  to  the  Bourbons  on 
behalf  of  a  cause  which  the  madness,  I  do  not  say  of  France, 
but  of  Paris,  has  enforced  on  a  sovereign  against  whom  you 
would  fight  to-morrow  if  you  had  a  chance  of  placing  the  descen- 
dant of  Henry  IV.  on  his  throne  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  about  to  fight  for  my  sovereign,  but  for  my  couii 
try  against  the  foreigner." 

"  An  excellent  answer,  if  the  foreigner  had  invaded  your 
country ;  but  it  seems  tliat  your  country  is  going  to  invade  the 


THE  PARISIANS. 


453 


foreigner — a  very  different  thing.  Chut !  all  this  is  discussion 
most  painful  to  me.  I  feel  for  the  Emperor  a  personal  loyalty, 
and  for  the  hazards  he  is  about  to  encounter  a  prophetic  dread, 
as  an  ancestor  of  yours  might  have  felt  for  Francis  I.  could  he 
have  foreseen  Pavia.  Let  us  talk  of  ourselves  and  the  effect 
the  war  should  have  upon  our  individual  action.  You  are 
aware,  of  course,  that  though  M.  Louvier  has  had  notice  of  our 
intention  to  pay  off  his  mortgage,  that  intention  cannot  be  car- 
ried into  effect  for  six  months  :  if  the  money  be  not  then  forth- 
comino-,  his  hold  on  Rochebriant  remains  unskaken — the  sum  is 


large." 


Alas  !  yes." 

"  The  war  must  greatly  disturb  the  money-market,  affect 
many  speculative  adventures  and  operations  at  the  very  moment 
credit  may  be  most  needed.  It  is  absolutely  necessary  that  I 
should  be  daily  at  my  post  on  the  Bourse,  and  hourly  watch  the 
ebb  and  flow  of  events.  Under  these  circumstances,  I  had 
counted,  permit  me  to  count  still,  on  your  presence  in  Bretagne. 
We  have  already  begun  negotiations  on  a  somewhat  extensive 
scale,  whether  as  regards  the  improvement  of  forests  and 
orchards,  or  the  plans  for  building-allotments,  as  soon  as  the 
lands  are  free  for  disposal.  For  all  these  the  eye  of  a  master  is 
required.  I  entreat  you,  then,  to  take  up  your  residence  at 
Rochebriant." 

"  My  dear  friend,  this  is  but  a  kindly  and  delicate  mode  of 
relieving  me  from  the  dangers  of  war.  I  have,  as  you  must  be 
conscious,  no  practical  knowledge  of  business.  Hebert  can  be 
implicitly  trusted,  and  will  carry  out  your  views  with  intinitely 
more  ability." 

"  Marquis,  pray  neither  to  Hercules  nor  to  He'bert :  if  you 
wish  to  get  your  own  cart  out  of  the  ruts,  put  your  own  shoulder 
to  the  wheel." 

Alain  colored  high,  unaccustomed  to  be  so  bluntly  addressed, 
but  he  replied  with  a  kind  of  dignified  meekness — 

"  I  shall  ever  remain  grateful  for  what  you  have  done  and 
wish  to  do  for  me.  But,  assuming  that  you  suppose  rightly, 
the  estates  of  Rochebriant  would,  in  your  hands,  become  a  pro- 
fitable investment,  and  more  than  redeem  the  mortgage  and  the 
sum  you  have  paid  Louvier  on  my  account.  Let  it  pass  to  you 
irrespective  of  me.  I  shall  console  myself  in  the  knowledge 
that  the  old  place  will  be  restored,  and  that  those  who  honored  its 
old  owners  prosper  in  hands  so  strong,  guided  by  a  heart  to 
generous." 

Duplessis  was  deeply  affected  by  these  simple  words  ;  they 


454  ^^-^^  PAKISIAA'S. 

seized  him  on  the  tenderest  side  of  his  character — for  his  heart 
was  generous,  and  no  one  except  his  lost  wife  and  his  loving 
child,  had  ever  before  discovered  it  to  be  so.  Has  it  ever  happen- 
ed to  you,  reader,  to  be  appreciated  on  the  one  point  of  the  good 
or  the  great  that  is  in  you — on  which  secretly  you  value  your- 
self most — but  for  which  nobody,  not  admitted  into  your  heart 
of  hearts,  has  given  you  credit  ?  If  that  has  happened  to  you, 
judge  what  Duplessis  felt  when  the  fittest  representative  of 
that  divine  chivalry  which,  if  sometimes  deficient  in  head,  owes 
all  that  exalts  it  to  riches  of  heart,  spoke  thus  to  the  professional 
money-maker,  whose  qualities  of  head  were  so  acknowledged 
that  a  compliment  to  them  would  be  a  hollow  impertinence, 
and  whose  qualities  of  heart  had  never  yet  received  a  compli- 
ment! 

Duplessis  started  from  his  seat  and  embraced  Alain,  mur- 
muring, "  Listen  to  me.  I  love  you  ;  I  never  had  a  son — be 
mine ;  Rochebriant  shall  be  my  daughter's  ^6-/." 

Alain  returned  the.  embrace,  and  then,  recoiling,  said — 

"  Father,  ycur  first  desire  must  be  honor  for  your  son.  You 
have  guessed  my  secret — I  have  learned  to  love  Valerie.  See- 
ing her  out  in  the  world,  she  seemed  like  other  girls,  fair  and 
commonplace ;  seeing  her  at  your  house,  I  have  said  to  myself 
'  There  is  the  one  girl  fairer  than  all  others  in  my  eyes,  and  the 
one  individual  to  whom  all  other  girls  are  commonplace.'  " 

"  Is  that  true  .?— is  it .?  " 

"  True  !  does  2.  gentilhomme  ever  lie  ?  And  out  of  that  love 
for  her  has  grown  this  innnovable  desire  to  be  something  worthy 
of  her— something  that  may  lift  me  from  the  vulgar  platform  o'f 
men  who  owe  all  to  ancestors,  nothing  to  themselves.  Do  you 
suppose  for  one  moment  that  I,  saved  from  ruin  and  penury  by 
Vale'rie's  father,  could  be  base  enough  to  say  to  her,  '  In  return 
be  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Rochebriant' t  Do  you  suppose  that 
I  whom  you  would  love  and  respect  as  son,  could  come  to  you 
and-  say,  '  I  am  oppressed  by  your  favors— I  am  crippled  with 
debts— give  me  your  millions  and  we  are  quits'  >  No,  Duplessis  ! 
You,  so  well  descended  yourself — so  superior  as  man  among 
men  that  you  would  have  won  name  and  position  had  you  been 
born  the  son  of  a  shoeblack, — you  would  eternally  despise  the 
noble  who,  in  days  when  all  that  we  Bretons  deem  holy  in 
twblcsse  is  subjected  to  ridicule  and  contempt,  should  so  vilely 
forgot  the  only  motto  which  the  scutcheons  of  all  gentilhommei 
have  in  common,  '  Noblesse  oblige:  War,  with  all  its  perils  and 
all  its  grandeur— war  lifts  on  high  the  banners  of  France,— war, 
in  which  every  ancestor  of  mine  whom  I  care   to  recall  aggran 


THE  PARISIANS. 


45  S 


dized  the  name  that  descends  to  me.  Let  me  then  do  as  those 
before  me  have  done  ;  let  me  prove  that  I  am  worth  something 
in  myself ;  and  then  you  and  I  are  equals,  and  I  can  say  with 
no  humbled  crest,  '  Your  benefits  are  accepted  :  the  man  who 
has  fought  not  ignobly  for  France  may  aspire  to  the  hand  of 
your  daughter.  Give  me  Valerie  ;  as  to  her  dot — be  it  so : 
Rochebriant — it  will  pass  to  her  children." 

"  Alain  !  Alain  !  my  friend  !  my  son  ! — but  if  you  fall." 

"Valerie  will  give  you  a  nobler  son." 

Duplessis  moved  away,  sighing  heavily ;  but  he  said  r.o 
more  in  deprecation  of  Alain's  martial  resolves. 

A  Frenchman,  however  practical,  however  worldly,  however 
philosophical  he  may  be,  who  does  not  sympathize  with  the 
follies  of  honor — who  does  not  concede  indulgence  to  the  hot 
blood  of  youth  when  he  says,  "  My  country  is  insulted  and  her 
banner  is  unfurled  " — may  certainly  be  a  man  of  excellent  com- 
mon sense  ;  but  if  such  men  had  been  in  the  majority,  Gaul  would 
never  have  been  France — Gaul  would  have  been  a  province  of 
Germany. 

And  as  Duplessis  walked  homeward — he,  the  calmest  and 
most  far-seeing  of  all  authorities  on  the  Bourse — the  man  who, 
excepting  only  De  Mauleon,  most  decidedly  deemed  the  cause 
of  the  war  a  blunder  and  most  forbodingly  anticipated  its  issues 
— caught  the  prevalent  enthusiasm.  Everywhere  he  was  stopped 
by  cordial  hands,  everywhere  met  by  congratulating  smiles. 
"  How  right  you  have  been,  Duplessis,  when  you  hare  laughed 
at  those  who  have  said,  '  The  Emperor  is  ill,  decrepit,  done 
up ' ! " 

"  Vive  r  E7npereur !  at  last  we  shall  be  face  to  face  with 
those  insolent  Prussians  !  " 

Before  he  arrived  at  his  home,  passing  along  the  Boulevards, 
greeted  by  all  the  groups  enjoying  the  cool  night  air  before  the 
cafes^  Duplessis  had  caught  the  war  epidemic. 

Entering  his  hotel,  he  went  at  once  to  Vale'rie's  chamber. 
"  Sleep  well  to-night,  child  :  Alain  has  told  me  that  he  adores 
thee  ;  and  if  he  will  go  to  the  war,  it  is  that  he  may  lay  his 
laurels  at  thy  feet.  Bless  thee,  my  child :  thou  couldst  not 
liave  made  a  nobler  choice  !  " 

Whether  after  these  words,  Valdrie  slept  well  or  not,  'tis 
not  for  me  to  say ;  but  if  she  did  sleep,  I  venture  to  guess 
that  her  dreams  were  rose-colored. 


456  THE  PARISIANS,: 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Ai.L  the  earlier  part  of  that  next  day  Graham  Vane  remained 
indoors — a  lovely  day  at  Paris  that  8th  of  July,  and  with  that 
summer  day  all  hearts  at  Paris  were  in  unison.  Discontent 
was  charmed  into  enthusiasm — Belleville  and  Montmartre  for- 
got the  visions  of  Communism  and  Socialism  and  other  "  isms  " 
not  to  be  realized  except  in  some  undiscovered  Atlantis  ! 

The  Emperor  was  the  idol  of  the  day — the  names  of  Jules 
Favre  and  Gambetta  were  by-words  of  scorn.  Even  Armand 
Monnier,  still  out  of  work,  beginning  to  feel  the  pinch  of  want, 
and  fierce  for  any  revolution  that  might  turn  topsy-turvy  the 
conditions  of  labor, — even  Armand  Monnier  was  found  among 
groups  that  were  laying  ifumortelles  at  the  foot  of  the  column  in 
tlie  Place  Vendome,  and  heard  say  to  a  fellow-malcontent,  with 
eyes  uplifted  to  the  statue  of  the  First  Napoleon,  "  Do  you  not 
feel  at  this  moment  that  no  Frenchman  can  be  long  angry  with 
the  little  corporal  1      He   denied  La  Liberie^  but  he  gave  La 

Heeding  not  the  stir  of  the  world  without  Graham  was  com- 
pelling into  one  resolve  the  doubts  and  scruples  which  had  so 
long  warred  against  the  heart  which  they  ravaged  but  could 
not  wholly  subdue. 

The  conversations  with  Mrs.  Morley  and  Rochebriant  had 
placed  in  a  light  in  which  he  had  not  before  regarded  it  the 
image  of  Isaura.  He  had  reasoned  from  the  starting-point  of 
his  love  for  her,  and  had  sought  to  convince  himself  that  against 
that  love  it  was  his  duty  to  strive. 

]kit  now  a  new  question  was  addressed  to  his  conscience  as 
well  as  to  his  heart.  What  though  he  had  never  formally  de- 
clared to  her  his  affection — never  in  open  words  wooed  her  as 
his  own — never  even  hinted  to  her  the  hopes  of  a  union  which 
at  one  time  he  had  fondly  entertained, — still,  was  it  true  tha: 
his  luve  had  been  too  transparent  not  to  be  detected  by  her  and 
not  to  have  led  her  on  to  return  it  ? 

Certainly  he  had,  as  we  know,  divined  that  he  was  not  in- 
different to  her;  at  Enghien,  a  year  ago,  that  he  had  gained 
her  esteem  and  perhaps  interested  her  fancy. 

We  know  also  how  he  had  tried  to  persuade  himself  that 
the  artistic  temperament,  especially  when  developed  in  women," 
ia  loo  elastic  to  suffer  the  things'  of  real  life   to  have  lasting 


THE  PARISIANS. 


457 


h  fluence  over  happiness  or  sorrow, — that  in  the  pursuits  in 
which  her  thought  and  imagination  found  employ,  in  the  ex- 
citement they  sustained  and  the  fame  to  which  they  conduced, 
Isaura  would  be  readily  consoled  for  a  momentary  pang  of  dis- 
appointed affection,  and  that  a  man  so  alien  as  himself,  both 
by  nature  and  by  habit,  from  the  artistic  world,  was  the  very 
last  person  who  could  maintain  deep  and  permanent  impression 
on  her  actual  life  or  her  ideal  dreams.  But  what  if,  as  he 
gathered  from  the  words  of  the  fair  American — what  if  in  all 
these  assumptions  he  was  wholly  mistaken  ?  What  if,  in  previ- 
ously revealing  his  own  heart,  he  had  decoyed  hers  ?  What  if, 
by  a  desertion  she  had  no  right  to  anticipate  he  had  blighted 
her  future  ?  What  if  this  brilliant  child  of  genius  could  love  as 
warmly,  as  deeply,  as  enduringly  as  any  simple  village  girl  to 
whom  there  is  no  poetry  except  love  ?  If  this  were  so,  what 
became  the  first  claim  on  his  honor,  his  conscience,  his  duty  ? 

The  force  which  but  a  few  days  ago  his  reasonings  had 
given  to  the  arguments  that  forbade  him  to  think  of  Isauia, 
became  weaker  and  weaker,  as  now,  in  an  altered  mood  of  re- 
flection, he  re-summoned  and  re-weighed  them. 

All  those  prejudices  which  had  seemed  to  him  such  rational 
common-sense  truths  when  translated  from  his  own  mind  into 
the  words  of  Lady  Janet's  'letter, — was  not  Mrs.  Morley  right 
in  denouncing  them  as  the  crochets  of  an  insolent  egotism  ? 
Was  it  not  rather  to  the  favor  than  to  the  disparagement  of 
Isaura,  regarded  even  in  the  man's  narrow-minded  view  of 
woman's  dignity,  that  this  orphan  girl  could  with  character  so 
unscathed  pass  through  the  trying  ordeal  of  the  public  babble, 
the  public  gaze — command  alike  the  esteem  of  a  woman  so 
pure  as  Mrs  Morley,  the  reverence  of  a  man  so  chivalrously 
sensitive  to  honor  as  Alain  de  Rochebriant  ? 

Musing  thus,  Graham's  countenance  at  last  brightened — a 
glorious  joy  entered  into  and  possessed  him.  He  felt  as  a 
man  who  had  burst  asunder  the  swathes  and  trammels  which 
had  kept  him  galled  and  miserable  with  the  sense  of  captivity, 
and  from  which  some  wizard  spell  that  took  strength  from  his 
own  superstition  had  forbidden  to  struggle. 

He  was  free  ! — and  that  freedom  was  rapture  ! — yes,  his  re- 
solve was  taken. 

The  day  was  now  far  advanced.     He  should  have  just  time 

before  the  dinner  with   Duplessis  to  drive  to  A ,  where  he 

still  supposed  Isaura  resided.  How,  as  his  fiacre  rolled  along 
the  well-remembered  road — how  completely  he  lived  in  thai 
world  of  romance  of  which  he  denied  himself  to  be  a  'iunizen  ! 


458  THE  PARTSIANS. 

Arrived  at  the  little  villa,  he  found  it  occupied  only  by  work- 
men— it  was  under  repair.  No  one  could  tell  him  to  what 
residence  the  ladies  who  occupied  it  the  last  had  removed. 

"  I  shall  learn  from  Mrs.  Morley."  thought  Graham  ;  and  at 
her  house  he  called  in  going  back,  but  Mrs.  Morley  was  not  at 
home.  He  had  only  just  time,  after  regaining  his  apartment,  to 
change  his  dress  for  the  dinner  to  which  he  was  invited,  As 
it  was,  he  arrived  late,  and,  while  apologizing  to  his  host  for 
his  want  of  punctuality,  his  tongue  faltered.  At  the  farther  end 
of  the  room  he  saw  a  face,  paler  and  thinner  than  when  he  had 
seen  it  last — a  face  across  which  a  something  of  grief  had 
gone. 

The  servant  announced  that  Mor'.ir.r  r  was  se7-ved. 

"  Mr.  Vane,"  said  Duplessis  '  7/1)'  you  take  in  to  dinner 
Mademoiselle  Cicogna  ?  " 


THE  PARISIANS. 


4S9 


BOOK  XI. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Among  the  frets  and  checks  to  the  couise  that  "  never  cliil 
run  smooth,"  there  is  one  which  is  sufficiently  frequent,  for 
many  a  reader  will  remember  the  irritation  it  caused  him.  You 
have  counted  on  a  meeting  with  the  beloved  one  unwitnessed 
by  others,  an  interchange  of  confessions  and  vows  which  others 
may  not  hear.  You  have  arranged  almost  the  words  in  whicJi 
your  innermost  heart  is  to  be  expressed  ;  pictured  to  yourself 
the  very  looks  by  which  those  words  will  have  their  sweetest 
reply.  The  scene  you  have  thus  imagined  appears  to  you  vivid 
and  distinct  as  if  foreshown  in  a  magic  glass.  And  suddenly, 
after  long  absence,  the  meeting  takes  place  in  the  midst  of  a 
common  companionship  :  nothing  that  you  wished  to  say  can 
be  said.  The  scene  you  pictured  is  painted  out  by  the  irony  of 
Chance  ;  and  groups  and  backgrounds  of  which  you  had  never 
dreamed  start  forth  from  the  disappointing  canvas.  Happy  if 
that  be  all  !  But  sometimes,  by  a  strange  subtle  intuition,  you 
feel  that  the  person  herself  is  changed  ;  and  sympathetic  with 
that  change  a  terrible  chill  comes  over  your  own  heart. 

Before  Graham  had  taken  his  seat  at  the  table  beside 
Isaura,  he  felt  she  was  changed  to  him.  He  felt  it  by  her  very 
touch  as  their  hands  met  at  the  first  greeting, — by  the  tone  of  her 
voice  in  the  few  words  that  passed  between  them, — by  the  ab- . 
sence  of  all  glow  in  the  smile  which  had  once  lit  up  her  face,  as 
a  burst  of  sunshine  lights  up  a  day  in  spring  and  gives  a  richer 
gladness  of  color  to  all  its  blooms.  Once  seated  side,  by  side, 
they  remained  for  some  moments  silent.  Indeed,  it  would  have 
been  rather  difficult  for  anything  less  than  the  wonderful  in- 
telligence of  lovers  between  whom  no  wall  can  prevent  the 
stolen  interchange  of  tokens,  to  have  ventured  private  talk  of 
their  own  amid  the  excited  converse  which  seemed  all  eyes,  all 
tongues,  all  ears,  admitting  no  one  present  to  abstract  himself 
from  'the  common  emotion.     Englishmen  do  not  recognize  the 


460 


THE  PARISIANS. 


old  classic  law  which  limited  the  number  of  guests  where  ban- 
quets are  meant  to  be  pleasant  to  that  of  the  Nine  Muses.  They 
invite  guests  so  numerous,  and  so  shy  of  launching  talk  across 
the  table,  that  you  may  talk  to  the  person  next  to  you  not  less 
secure  from  listeners  than  you  would  be  in  talking  with  the 
stranger  whom  you  met  at  a  well  in  the  Sahara.  It  is  not  so, 
except  on  state  occasions,  at  Paris.  Difficult  there  to  retire 
mto  solitude  with  your  next  neighbor.  The  guests  collected 
by  Duplessis  completed  with  himself  the  number  of  the  Sacred 
Nine — the  host,  Valerie,  Rochebriant,  Graham,  Isaura,  Signora 
Venosta,  La  Duchesse  de  Tarascon,  the  wealthy  and  high-born 
Imperialist  Prince-*— ,  and,  last  and  least,  one  who  shall  be 
nameless. 

I  have  read  somewhere,  perhaps  in  one  of  the  books  which 
American  superstition  dedicates  to  the  mysteries  of  Spiritual- 
ism, how  a  gifted  seer,  technically  styled  medium,  sees  at  the 
opera  a  box  which  to  other  eyes  appears  untenanted  and  empty, 
but  to  him  is  full  of  ghosts,  well  dressed  in  costume  de  regie,  gaz- 
ing on  the  boards  and  listening  to  the  music.  Like  such  ghosts 
are  certain  beings  whom  I  call  Lookers-on.  Though  still  living, 
they  have  no  share  in  the  life  they  survey.  They  come  as  from 
another  world  to  hear  and  to  see  what  is  passing  in  ours.  In 
ours  they  lived  once,  but  that  troubled  sort  of  life  they  have  sur 
vived.  Still  we  amuse  them,  as  stage-players  and  puppets  amuse 
ourselves.  One  of  these  Lookers-on  completed  the  party  at  the 
house  of  Duplessis. 

How  lively,  how  animated  the  talk  was  at  the  financier's  pleas- 
ant table  that  day,  the  8th  of  July  !  The  excitement  of  the  coming 
war  made  itself  loud  in  every  Gallic  voice  and  kindled  in  every 
Gallic  eye.  Appeals  at  every  second  nunute  were  made,  some- 
times courteous,  sometimes  sarcastic,  to  the  Englishman — prom- 
ising son  of  an  eminent  statesman,  and  native  of  a  country  in 
which  France  is  always  coveting  an  ally  and  always  suspecting 
an  enemy.  Certainly  Graham  could  not  have  found  a  less  pro- 
pitious moment  for  asking  Isaura  if  she  really  were  changed. 
And  certainly  the  honor  of  Great  Britain  was  never  less  ably 
represented  (that  is  saying  a  great  deal)  than  it  was  on  this 
occasion  by  the  young  man  reared  to  diplomacy  and  aspiring  to 
Parliamentary  distinction.  He  answered  all  questions  with  a 
constrained  voice  and  an  insipid  smile, — all  questions  pointedly 
addressed  to  him  as  to  what  demonstrations  of  admiring  sym 
pathy  with  the  gallantry-  of  France  might  be  expected  from  the 
English  government  and  people  ;  what  his  acquaintance  with  the 
German   races  led  him  to  suppose   would  be  the  etTect  on  the 


THE  PARISIANS.  461 

Southern  States  of  the  first  defeat  of  the  Prussians  :  whether 
the  man  called  Moltke  was  not  a  mere  strategist  on  paper,  a 
crotchety  pedant :  whether,  if  Belgium  became  so  enamoured  of 
the  glories  of  France  as  to  solicit  fusion  with  her  people,  Eng- 
land would  have  a  right  to  offer  any  objection, — etc,  etc.  I  do 
not  think  that  during  that  festival  Graham  once  thought  one-mill- 
ionth so  much  about  the  fates  of  Prussia  and  France  as  he  did 
think,  "  Why  is  that  girl  so  changed  to  me  ?  merciful  Heaven  !  is 
she  lost  to  my  life  ?  " 

By  training,  by  habit,  even  by  passion,  the  man  was  a  gen- 
uine politician,  cosmopolitan  as  well  as  patriotic,  accustomed  to 
consider  what  effect  every  vibration  in  that  balance  of  Euro- 
pean power,  which  no  deep  thinker  can  despise,  must  have  on 
the  destinies  of  civilized  humanity,  and  on  those  of  the  nation 
to  which  he  belongs.  But  are  there  not  moments  in  life  when 
the  human  heart  suddenly  narrows  the  circumference  to  which 
its  emotions  are  extended  ?  As  the  ebb  of  a  tide,  it  retreats 
from  the  shores  it  had  covered  on  its  flow,  drawing  on  with 
contracted  waves  the  treasure-trove  it  has  selected  to  hoard 
amid  its  deeps. 


CHAPTER  II. 


On  quitting  the  dining-room,  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon 
said  to  her  host,  on  whose  arm  she  was  leaning,  "  Of  course 
you  and  I  must  go  with  the  stream.  But  is  not  all  the  fine  talk 
that  has  passed  to-day  at  your  table,  and  in  which  we  too  have 
joined,  a  sort  of  hypocrisy  ?  I  may  say  this  to  you ;  I  would  say 
it  to  no  other." 

"  And  I  say  to  you,  Madame  la  Duchesse,  that  which  I  would 
say  to  no  other.  Thinking  over  it  as  I  sit  alone,  I  find  myself 
making  a  '  terrible  hazard  ;'  but  when  I  go  abroad  and  become 
infected  by  the  general  enthusiasm,  I  pluck  up  gayety  of  spirit, 
and  whisper  to  myself,  '  True,  but  it  may  be  an  enormous  gain. 
To  get  the  left  bank  of  the  Rhine  is  a  trifle  ;  but  to  check  in 
our  next  neighbor  a  growth  which  a  few  years  hence  would  overtop 
us, — that  is  no  trifle.  And,  be  the  gain  worth  the  hazard  or  not, 
could  the  Emperor,  could  any  government  likely  to  hold  its  own 
for  a  week,  have  declined  to  take  the  chance  of  the  die  ?" 


^62  THE  PARISIANS. 

The  Duchesse  mused  a  moment,  and  meanwhile  the  two 
seated  themselves  on  a  divan  in  the  corner  of  the  salon.  Then 
she  said  very  slowly, — 

"  No  government  that  held  its  tenure  on  popular  suffrage 
could  have  done  so.  But  if  the  Emperor  had  retained  the  per- 
sonal authority  which  once  allowed  the  intellect  of  one  man  to 
control  and  direct  the  passions  of  many,  I  think  the  war  would 
have  been  averted.  1  have  reason  to  know  that  the  Emperor 
gave  his  emphatic  support  to  the  least  bellicose  members 
of  the  Council,  and  that  Gramont's  speech  did  not  contain 
the  passage  that  precipitates  hostilities  when  the  Council  in 
which  it  was  framed  broke  up.  These  fatal  words  were  forced 
upon  him  by  the  temper  in  which  the  Ministers  found  the 
Chamber,  and  the  reports  of  the  popular  excitement  which 
could  not  be  resisted  without  imminent  danger  of  revolution. 
It  is  Paris  that  has  forced  the  war  on  the  Emperor.  But 
enough  of  this  subject.  What  must  be  must;  and,  as  you  say, 
the  gain  may  be  greater  than  the  hazard.  I  come  to  something  else 
you  whispered  to  me  before  we  went  in  to  dinner, — a  sort  of 
complaint  which  wounds  me  sensibly.  You  say  I  had  assisted 
to  a  choice  of  danger  and  possibly  of  death  a  very  distant  con- 
nection of  mine,  who  might  have  been  a  very  near  connection 
of  yours.     You  mean  Alain  de  Rochebriant  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  I  accept  him  as  a  suitor  for  the  hand  of  my  only 
daughter." 

"  I  am  so  glad,  not  for  your  sake  so  much  as  for  his.  No 
one  can  know  him  well  without  appreciating  in  him  the  finest 
qualities  of  the  finest  order  of  the  French  noble ;  but,  having 
known  your  pretty  Valerie  so  long,  my  congratulations  are  for 
the  man  who  can  win  her.  Meanwhile,  hear  my  explanation  : 
when  I  promised  Alain  any  interest  I  can  command  for  the 
grade  of  officer  in  a  regiment  of  Mobiles,  I  knew  not  that  he 
had  formed,  or  was  likely  to  form,  ties  or  duties  to  keep  him  at 
home.     I  withdraw  my  promise." 

"  No,  Duchesse,  fulfil  it.  I  should  be  disloyal  indeed  if  I 
robbed  a  so\'ereign  under  whose  tranquil  and  prosperous  reign 
I  have  acquired,  with  no  dishonor,  the  fortune  which  Order 
proffers  to  Commerce,  of  one  gallant  defender  in  the  hour  of 
need.  And,  speaking  frankly,  if  Alain  were  really  my  son  I 
think  I  am  P'renchman  enough  to  remember  that  France  is  my 
mother." 

"  Say  no  more,  my  friend — say  no  more,"  cried  the  Duchesse, 
with  the  warm  blood  of  the  heart  rushing  through  all  the  deli- 
cate coatings  of  pearl-powder.     "  If  every  Frencbmanfelt  as 


THE  PARISIANS.  463 

you  do  ;  if  in  this  Paris  of  ours  all  hostilities  of  class  may 
merge  in  the  one  thought  of  the  common  country  ;  if  in  French 
hearts  there  yet  thrill  the  same  sentiment  as  that  which,  in  the 
terrible  days  when  all  other  ties  were  rent  asunder,  revered 
France  as  mother  and  rallied  her  sons  to  her  aid  against  the 
confederacy  of  Europe, — why,  then  we  need  not  grow  pale  with 
dismay  at  the  sight  of  a  Prussian  needle-gun.  Hist !  look  yon- 
der :  is  not  that  a  tableau  of  Youth  in  Arcady  ?  Words  rage 
around,  and  Love,  unconcerned,  whispers  to  Love  "  The 
Duchesse  here  pointed  to  a  corner  of  the  adjoining  room  in 
which  Alain  and  Valdrie  sat  apart,  he  whispering  into  her  ear, 
her  cheek  downcast  and,  even  seen  at  that  distance,  brightened 
by  the  delicate  tenderness  of  its  blushes. 


CHAPTER  in. 


But  in  that  small  assembly  there  were  two  who  did  not  at- 
tract the  notice  of  Duplessis,  or  the  lady  of  the  Imperial  Court. 

While  the  Prince and  the  placid  Looker-on  were  engaged 

at  a  contest  of  ecarte,  with  the  lively  Venosta,  for  the  gallery, 
interposing  criticisms  and  admonitions,  Isaura  was  listlessly 
turning  over  a  collection  of  photographs  strewed  on  a  table 
that  stood  near  to  an  open  window  in  the  remoter  angle  of  the 
room  communicating  with  a  long  and  wide  balcony  filled  par- 
tially with  flowers,  and  overlooking  the  Champs  Elys^es,  softly 
lit  up  by  the  innumerable  summer  stars.  Suddenly  a  whisper, 
the  command  of  which  she  could  not  resist,  thrilled  through  her 
ear,  and  sent  the  blood  rushing  back  to  her  heart. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  evening  at  Enghien  ?  how  I  said 
that  our  imagination  could  not  carry  us  beyond  the  question 
whether  we  two  should  be  gazing  together  that  night  twelve 
months  on  that  star  which  each  of  us  had  singled  out  from 
the  hosts  of  heaven  ?  That  was  the  8th  of  July.  It  is  the 
8th  of  July  once  more — come  and  seek  for  our  chosen  star. 
Come.     I  have  something  to  say,  which  say  I  must.     Come." 

Mechanically,  as  it  were, — mechanically,  as  they  tell  us  the 
Somnambulist  obeys  the  Mesmerizer, — Isaura  obeyed  that 
summons.  In  a  kind  of  dreamv  submission  she  followed  his 
steps,  and  found  herself  on   the  balcony,   flowers   around  her 


464  "^^^  PARISIANS. 

and  stars  above,  by  the  side  of  the  man  who  had  been  to  her 
that  being  ever  surrounded  by  flowers  and  lighted  by  stars, — • 
the  ideal  of  Romance  to  the  heart  of  virgin  Woman. 

"  Isaura,"  said  the  Englishman,  softly.  At  the  sound  of 
her  own  name  for  the  first  time  heard  from  those  lips,  every 
nerve  in  her  frame  quivered.  "  Isaura,  I  have  tried  to  live 
without  you.  I  cannot.  You  are  all  in  all  to  me  :  without 
you  it  seems  to  me  as  if  earth  had  no  flowers  and  even  heaven 
had  Avithdrawn  its  stars.  Are  there  differences  between  us, 
differences  of  taste,  of  sentiments,  of  habits,  of  thought  ?  Only 
le:  me  hope  that  you  can  love  me  a  tenth  part  so  much  as  I 
love  you,  and  such  differences  cease  to  be  discord.  Love 
harmonizes  all  sounds,  blends  all  colors  into  its  own  divine 
oneness  of  heart  and  soul.  Look  up  !  is  not  the  star  which 
this  time  last  year  invited  our  gaze  above,  is  it  not  still  there  ? 
Does  it  not  still  invite  our  gaze  ?     Isaura,  speak  !  " 

"  Hush,  hush,  hush !  "  The  girl  could  say  no  more,  but  she 
recoiled  from  his  side. 

The  recoil  did  not  wound  him  :  there  was  no  hate  in  it. 
He  advanced,  he  caught  her  hand,  and  continued  ;  <n  one  of 
those  voices  which  become  so  musical  in  summer  nights  under 
starrv  skies — 

"  Isaura,  there  is  one  name  which  I  can  never  utter  without 
a  reverence  due  to  the  religion  which  binds  earth  to  heaven — a 
name  which  to  man  should  be  the  symbol  of  life  cheered  and 
beautified,  exalted,  hallowed.  That  name  is  '  wife.'  Will  you 
take  that  name  from  me  .'' " 

And  still  Isaura  made  no  reply.  She  stood  mute,  and  cold, 
and  rigid  as  a  statue  of  marble.  At  length,  as  if  consciousness 
had  been  arrested  and  was  struggling  back,  she  sighed  heavily, 
and  passed  her  hands  slowly  over  her  forehead. 

"  Mockery,  mocker}',"  she  said  then,  with  a  smile  half 
bitter,  half  plaintive,  on  her  colorless  lips.  "  Did  you  wait  to 
ask  me  that  question  till  you  knew  what  my  answer  must  be  ? 
I  have  pledged  the  name  of  wife  to  another." 

"  No,  no ;  you  say  that  to  rebuke,  to  punish  me  !  Unsay 
it !     Unsay  it !  " 

Isaura  beheld  the  anguish  of  his  face  with  bewildered 
eyes.  "  How  can  my  words  pain  you  ? "  she  said  drearily. 
*'  Did  you  not  write  that  I  had  unfitted  myself  to  be  wife  to 
you  ?  " 

"  I  ?  " 

"That  I  had  left  behind  me  the  peaceful  immunities  of 


THE  PARISIANS.  45  £ 

private  life  ?  I  felt  you  were  so  right !  Yes  !  I  am  affianced 
to  one  who  tliinks  that,  in  spite  of  that  misfortune ■" 

"  Stop,  I  command  you — stop  !  You  saw  my  letter  to  Mrs. 
Morley.  I  have  not  had  one  moment  free  from  torture  and  re- 
morse since  I  wrote  it.  But,  whatever  in  that  letter  you  might 
justly  resent " 

"  I  did  not  resent " 


Graham  heard  not  the  interruption,  but  hurried  on.  "  You 
would  forgive  could  you  read  my  heart.  No  matter.  Every 
sentiment  in  that  letter,  except  those  which  conve3-ed  admira- 
tion, I  retract.  Be  mine,  and,  instead  of  presuming  to  check 
in  you  the  irresistible  impulse  of  genius  to  the  first  place  in 
the  head  or  the  heart  of  the  world,  I  will  teach  myself  to  en- 
courage, to  share,  to  exult  in  it.  Do  you  know  what  a  differ- 
ence there  is  between  the  absent  one  and  the  present  one — be- 
tween the  distant  image  against  whom  our  doubts,  our  fears, 
our  suspicions  raise  up  hosts  of  imaginary  giants,  barriers  of 
visionary  walls,  and  the  beloved  face  before  the  sight  of  which 
the  hosts  are  fled,  the  walls  are  vanished  .''  Isaura,  we  meet 
again.  You  know  now  from  my  own  lips  that  I  love  you.  I 
think  your  lips  will  not  deny  that  you  love  me.  You  say  that 
you  are  affianced  to  another.  Tell  the  man  frankly,  honestly, 
that  you  mistook  your  heart.  It  is  not  yours  to  give.  Save 
yourself,  save  him,  from  a  union  in  which  there  can  be  no  hap- 
piness." 

"It  is  too  late,'-'  said  Isaura,  with  hollow  tones,  but  with 
no  trace  of  vacillating  weakness  on  her  brow  and  lips.  "  Did 
I  say  now  to  that  other  one,  '  I  break  the  faith  that  I  pledged 
to  you,'  I  should  kill  him,  body  and  soul.  Slight  thing  though 
I  be,  to  him  I  am  all  in  all ;  to  you,  Mr.  Vane,  to  you  a  memory 
— the  memory  of  one  whom  a  year,  perhaps  a  month,  hence, 
you  will  rejoice  to  think  you  have  escaped." 

She  passed  from  him — passed  away  from  the  flowers  and 
the  starlight;  and  when  Graham, — recovering  from  the  stun 
of  her  crushing  words,  and  with  the  haughty  mien  and  step  of 
the  man  who  goes  forth  from  the  ruin  of  his  hopes,  leaning  for 
support  upon  his  pride, — when  Graham  re-entered  the  room, 
all  the  guests  had  departed  save  only  Alain,  who  was  still  ex- 
changing whispered  words  with  Valdrie. 


^66  ^'^^  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  next  day,  at  the  hour  appointed,  Graham  entered 
Alain's  apartment.  "I  am  glad  to  tell  you,-'  said  the  Mar- 
quis, gayly,  "  that  the  box  has  arrived,  and  we  will  very  soon 
examine  its  contents.  Breakfast  claims  precedence."  During 
the  meal  Alain  was  in  gay  spirits,  and  did  not  at  first  notice 
the  gloomy  countenance  and  abstracted  mood  of  his  guest. 
At  length,  surprised  at  the  dull  response  to  his  lively  sallies 
on  the  part  of  a  man  generally  so  pleasant  in  the  frankness 
of  his  speech  and  the  cordial  ring  of  his  sympathetic  laugh, 
it  occurred  to  him  that  the  change  in  Graham  must  be  as- 
cribed to  something  that  had  gone  wrong  in  the  meeting  with 
Isaura  the  evening  before  ;  and,  remembering  the  curtness 
with  which  Graham  had  implied  disinclination  to  converse 
about  the  fair  Italian,  he  felt  perplexed  how  to  reconcile  the 
impulse  of  his  good  nature  with  the  discretion  imposed  on  his 
good  breeding.  At  all  events,  a  compliment  to  the  lady  whom 
Graham  had  so  admired  could  do  no  harm. 

"  How  well  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  looked  last  night !  " 

"  Did  she  ?  It  seemed  to  me  that,  in  health  at  least,  she  did 
not  look  very  well.  Have  you  heard  what  day  M.  Thiers  will 
speak  on  the  war  ?  '•' 

"  Thiers  ?  No.  Who  cares  about  Thiers  ?  Thank  Heaven, 
his  day  is  past !  I  don't  know  any  unmarried  woman  in  Paris, 
not  even  Valeria — I  mean  Mademoiselle  Duplessis — who  has  so 
exquisite  a  taste  in  dress  as  Mademoiselle  Cicogna.  Generally 
speaking,  the  taste  of  a  female  author  is  atrocious." 

"Really,  I  did  not  observe  her  dress.  I  am  no  critic  on 
subjects  so  dainty  as  the  dress  of  ladies  or  the  tastes  of  female 
authors." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  beau  Marquis^  gravely ;  "  as  to  dress, 
I  think  that  is  so  essential  a  thing  in  the  mind  of  woman,  that 
no  man  who  cares  about  women  ought  to  disdain  critical  study 
of  it.  In  woman  refinement  of  character  is  never  found  in  vul- 
garity of  dress.  I  have  only  observed  that  truth  since  I  came 
up  from  Bretagne." 

"  I  presume,  my  dear  Marquis,  that  you  may  have  read  in 
Bretagne  books  which  very  few  not  being  professed  scholars 
have  ever  read  at  Paris  ;  and  possibly  you  may  remember  that 
Horace  ascribes  the  most  exquisite  refinement  in  dress  denoted 


THE  PARISIANS.  ^5^ 

by  the  untranslatable  words  '■simplex  mundifii'' \o  a  lady  who 
was  not  less  distinguished  by  the  ease  and  rapidity  with  which 
she  could  change  her  affection.  Of  course  that  allusion  does 
not  apply  to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna ;  but  there  are  many  other 
exquisitely  dressed  ladies  of  Paris  of  whom  an  ill-fated  admirei 

'fidem 
Mutatosque  deos  flebit' 

Now,  with  your  permission,  we  will  adjourn  to  the  box  of 
letters." 

The  box  being  produced  and  unlocked,  Alain  looked  with 
conscientious  care  at  its  contents  before  he  passed  over  to  Gra- 
ham's inspection  a  few  epistles,  in  which  the  Englishman  imme- 
diately detected  the  same  handwriting  as  that  of  the  letter  from 
Louise  which  Richard  King  had  bequeathed  to  him. 

They  were  arranged  and  numbered  chronologically. 

Letter  I. 

"  Dear  M.  le  Marquis, — How  can  I  thank  you  sufhciently 
for  obtaining  and  remitting  to  me  those  certificates  ?  You  are 
too  aware  of  the  unhappy  episode  in  my  life  not  to  know  how  in- 
estimable is  the  service  you  render  me.  I  am  saved  all  further 
molestation  from  the  man  wfio  had  indeed  no  right  over  my 
freedom,  but  whose  persecution  might  compel  me  to  the  scandal 
and  disgrace  of  an  appeal  to  the  law  for  protection  and  the 
avowal  of  the  illegal  marriage  into  which  I  was  duped.  I  would 
rather  be  torn  limb  from  limb  by  wild  horses,  like  the  Queen  in 
the  history  books,  than  dishonor  myself  and  the  ancestry  which 
I  may  at  least  claim  on  the  mother's  side,  by  proclaiming  that 
I  had  lived  with  that  low  Englishman  as  his  wife,  when  I  was 
only — Oh,  heavens,  I  cannot  conclude  the  sentence  ! 

"  No,  Mons.  le  Marquis,  I  am  in  no  want  of  the  pecuniary 
aid  you  so  generously  wish  to  press  on  me.  Though  I  know  not 
where  to  address  my  poor  dear  uncle, — though  I  doubt,  even  if 
I  did,  whether  I  could  venture  to  confide  to  him  the  secret 
known  only  to  yourself  as  to  the  name  I  now  bear-— and  if  he 
hear  of  me  at  all  he  must  believe  nie  dead,  yet  1  have  enough 
left  of  the  money  he  last  remitted  to  me  for  present  support  : 
and  when  that  fails,  I  think  what  with  my  knowledge  of  English 
and  such  other  slender  accomplishments  as  1  possess  I  could 
maintain  myself  as  a  teacher  or  governess  in  sonie  German  fam. 
ily.     At  ail  events,  I  will  write  to  you  again  soon,  and  I  entreaj 


468  THE  PARISIANS. 

you  to  let  me  know  all  you  can  learn  about  my  uncle.  I  feel  so 
grateful  to  you  for  your  just  disbelief  of  the  horrible  calumny 
which  must  be  so  intolerably  galling  to  a  man  so  proud,  and, 
whatever  his  errors,  so  incapable  of  a  baseness. 

"  Direct  to  me  Poste  restante,  Augsburg. 

"Yours,  with  all  consideration. 


Letter  II. 
{Seven  'months  after  the  date  of  Letter  /.) 

"Augsburg. 

"  De-^r  M.  le  Marquis, — I  thank  you  for  your  kind  little 
note  informing  me  of  the  pains  you  have  taken,  as  yet  with  no 
result,  to  ascertain  what  has  become  of  my  unfortunate  uncle. 
My  life  since  I  last  wrote  has  been  a  very  quiet  one.  I  have 
been  teaching  among  a  few  families  here  ;  and  among  my  pupils 
are  two  little  girls  of  very  high  birth.  They  have  taken  so  great 
a  fancy  to  me  that  their  mother  has  just  asked  me  to  come  and 
reside  at  their  house  as  governess.  What  wonderfully  kind 
hearts  those  Germans  have, — so  simple,  so  truthful  !  They  raise 
no  troublesome  questions, — accept  my  own  story  implicitly." 
Here  follow  a  few  commonplace  sentences  about  the  German 
character,  and  a  postscript  "  I  go  into  my  new  home  nexr  week. 
When  you  hear  more  of  my  uncle,  direct  to  me  at  the  Countess 
von  Rudesheim,  Schloss  N M ,  near  Berlin." 

"  Rudesheim  !  "  Could  this  be  the  relation,  possibly  the 
wife,  of  the  Count  von  Rudesheim  with  whom  Graham  had 
formed  acquaintance  last  year  } 

Letter  III. 

{BePiveen  three  and  four  years  after  the  date  of  the  last^ 

'•  You  startled  me  indeed,  dear  M.  le  Marquis.  My  uncle  said 
to  have  been  recognized  in  Algeria,  under  another  name,  a  sol- 
dier in  the  Algerine  army  ?  My  dear,  proud,  luxurious  uncle  ! 
Ah!  I  cannot  believe  it,  any  more  than  you  do;  but  I  long  ea- 
gerly for  such  further  news  as  you  can  learn  of  him.  For  myself 
I  shall  perhaps  surprise  you  when  I  say  I  am  about  to  be  mar- 
ried. Nothing  can  exceed  the  amiable  kindness  I  have  received 
from  the  Ruacsheims  since  I  have  been  in   their  house.     Foi 


THE  rAKISIANS. 


4^9 


the  last  year  especially  I  have  been  treated  on  eqiuil  terms  as 
one  of  the  family.  Among  the  habitual  visitors  at  the  house  is 
a  gentleman  of  noble  birth,  but  not  of  rank  too  high  nor  of  for- 
tune too  great  to  make  a  marriage  with  the  French  widowed 
governess  a  7Hesalliance.  I  am  sure  that  he  loves  me  sincerely  , 
and  he  is  the  only  man  I  ever  met  whose  love  I  have  cared  to 
win.  We  are  to  be  married  in  the  course  of  the  year,  Of 
course  he  is  ignorant  of  my  painful  history,  and  will  never  learn 

it.     And,  after  all,  Louise  D is  dead.     In   the   home  to 

which  I  am  about  to  remove,  there  is  no  probability  that  the 
wretched  Englishman  can  ever  cross  my  path.  My  secret  is  as 
safe  with  you  as  in  the  grave  that  holds  her  whom  in  the  name 

of  Louise  D you  once   loved.     Henceforth  I  shall  trouble 

you  no  more  with  my  letters ;  but  if  you  hear  anything  deci- 
sively authentic  of  my  uncle's  fate,  write  me  a  line  at  any  time, 

directed,  as  before,  to  Madame  M ,  inclosed  to  the  Countess 

von  Rudesheim. 

"  And  accept  for  all  the  kindness  you  have  ever  shown  me, 
as  to  one  whom  you  did  not  disdain  to  call  a  kinswoman,  the 
assurance  of  my  undying  gratitude.  In  the  alliance  she  now 
makes,  your  kinswoman  does  not  discredit  the  name  through 
which  she  is  connected  with  the  yet  loftier  line  of  Roche- 
briant." 

To  this  letter  the  late  Marquis  had  appended,  in  pencil, 
"  Of  course  a  Rochebriant  never  denies  the  claim  of  a  kins- 
woman, even  though  a  drawing-master's  daughter.  Beautiful 
creature,  Louise,  but  a  termagant  !  I  could  not  love  Venus  if 
she  were  a  termagant.  L's  head  turned  by  the  unlucky  dis- 
covery that  her  mother  was  noble.  In  one  form  or  other, 
every  woman  has  the  same  disease — vanity.  Name  of  her  in- 
tended not  mentioned — easily  found  out." 

The  next  letter  was  dated  May  7,  1859,  on  black-edged 
paper,  and  contained  but  these  lines  :  "  I  was  much  comforted 
by  your  kind  visit  yesterday,  dear  Marquis.  My  affliction  has 
been  heavy  ;  but  for  the  last  two  years  my  husband's  conduct 
has  rendered  my  life  unhappy,  and  I  am  recovering  the  shock 
of  his  sudden  death.  It  is  true  that  I  and  the  children  are  left 
very  ill  provided  for  ;  but  I  cannot  accept  your  generous  offer 
of  aid.  Have  no  fear  as  to  my  future  fate.  Adieu,  my  dear 
Marquis !  This  will  reach  you  just  before  you  start  for  Naples. 
Bon  voyage,"  There  was  no  address  on  this  note — no  post- 
mark on  the  envelope — evidently  sent  by  hand. 

The  last  note,  dated  i86i,  March  20,  was  briefer  than  its 
predecessor.     "  I  have  taken  your  advice,  dear  Marquis,  and 


470  T!^^  PARISIAiXS. 

overcoming  all  scruples,  I  have  accepted  his  kind  offer,  on  the 
condition  that  I  am  never  to  be  taken  to  England.  I  had  no 
option  in  this  marriage.  I  can  now  own  to  you  that  mj/ 
poverty  had  become  urgent.  Yours  with  inalienable  grati- 
tude. 

This  last  note,  too,  was  without  post-mark,  and  as  evidently 
sent  by  hand. 

"There  are  no  other  letters,  then,  from  this  writer?  "  asked 
Graham  ;  "  and  no  further  clue  as  to  her  existence  ?  " 

"  None  that  I  have  discovered  ;  and  I  see  now  why  I  pre- 
served these  letters.  There  is  nothing  in  their  contents  not 
creditable  to  my  poor  father.  They  show  how  capable  he  was 
of  good  natured  disinterested  kindness  towards  even  a  distant 
relation  of  whom  he  could  certainly  not  have  been  proud,  judg- 
ing not  only  by  his  own  pencilled  note,  or  by  ihe  writer's  con- 
dition as  a  governess,  but  by  lier  loose  sentiments  as  to  the 
marriage-tie.  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea  who  she  could  be. 
I  never,  at  least,  heard  of  one  connected,  however  distantly, 
with  mv  family,  whom  I  could  identify  witli  the  writer  of  these 
letters." 

"  I  may  hold  them  a  short  lime  in  my  possession  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me  a  preliminar}'  question.  If  I  may  venture  to 
form  a  conjecture,  the  object  of  your  search  must  be  connected 
with  your  countryman  whom  the  lady  politely  calls  the 
'wretched  Englishman  ; '  but  I  own  I  should  not  like  to  lend, 
through  these  letters,  a  pretence  to  any  steps  that  may  lead  to 
a  scandal  in  which  my  father's  name  or  that  of  any  member  of 
my  family  could  be  mixed  up." 

"  Marquis,  it  is  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  all  scandal  that 
I  ask  you  to  trust  these  letters  to  my  direction." 

"  Foi  de  gentilhomme  ?  " 

"  Foi  de  gnitilhoi7ime  I " 

"  Take  them.     When  and  where  shall  we  meet  again  ?  " 

**  Soon,  I  tnist ;  but  I  must  leave  Paris  this  evening.  I 
am  bound  to  Berlin  in  quest  of  this  Countess  Von  Rudes- 
heim ;  and  I  fear  that  in  a  very  few  days  intercourse  bet^veen 
France  and  the  German  frontier  will  be  closed  upon  travellers." 

After  a  few  more  words,  not  worth  recording,  the  two  young 
men  shook  hands  and  parted. 


THE  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER  V. 


471 


It  was  with  an  interest  languid  and  listless  indeed  com- 
pared with  that  which  he  would  have  felt  a  day  before,  that 
Graham  mused  over  the  remarkable  advances  towards  the  dis- 
covery of  Louise  Duval  which  were  made  in  the  letters  he  had 
perused.  She  had  married,  then,  first  a  foreigner  whom  she 
spoke  of  as  noble,  and  whose  name  and  residence  could  be 
easily  found  through  the  Countess  von  Rudesheim.  The  mar- 
riage did  not  seem  to  have  been  a  happy  one.  Left  a  widow 
in  reduced  circumstances,  she  had  married  again,  evidently 
without  affection.  She  was  living  so  late  as  1861,  and  she  had 
children  living  in  1859  :  was  the  child  referred  to  by  Richard 
King  one  of  them  ? 

The  tone  and  style  of  the  letters  served  to  throw  some 
light  on  the  character  of  the  writer  :  they  evinced  pride,  stub- 
born self-will,  and  unamiable  hardness  of  nature  ;  but  her 
rejection  of  all  pecuniary  aid  from  a  man  like  the  late  Marquis 
de  Rochebriant  betokened  a  certain  dignity  of  sentiment.  She 
was  evidently,  whatever  her  strange  ideas  about  her  first  mar- 
riage with  Richard  King,  no  vulgar  woman  of  gallantry  ;  and 
there  must  have  been  some  sort  of  charm  about  her  to  have 
excited  a  friendly  interest  in  a  kinsman  so  remote,  and  a  man 
of  pleasure  so  selfish,  as  her  high-born  correspondent. 

But  what  now,  so  far  as  concerned  his  own  happiness,  was 
the  hope,  the  probable  certainty,  of  a  speedy  fulfilment  of 
the  trust  bequeathed  to  him  .?  Whether  the  result,  in  the 
death  of  the  mother,  and  more  especially  of  the  child,  left 
him  rich,  or,  if  the  last  sur\'ived,  reduced  his  fortune  to  a 
modest  independence,  Isaura,  was  equally  lost  to  him,  and 
fortune  became  valueless.  But  his  first  emotions  on  recover- 
ing from  the  shock  of  hearing  from  Isaura's  lips  that  she 
was  irrevocably  affianced  to  another  were  not  those  of  self- 
reproach.  They  were  those  of  intense  bitterness  against  her 
who,  if  really  so  much  attached  to  him  as  he  had  been  led  to 
hope,  could  within  so  brief  a  time  reconcile  her  heart  to 
marriage  with  another.  This  bitterness  was  no  doubt  unjust; 
but  1  believe  it  to  be  natural  to  men  of  a  nature  so  proud  and 
of  affections  so  intense  as  Graham's,  under  similar  defeats  of 
hope.  Resentment  is  the  first  impulse  in  a  man  loving  with 
the  whole  ardor  of  his  soul,  rejected,  no  matter  why  or 
wherefore,  by  the  woman  by  whom  he  had  cause  to  believe 


472 


THE  PARISIANS. 


he   himself   vvas  beloved  ;    and    though  Graham's  standard  of 
honor  was  certainly  the  reverse  of  low,  yet  man  does  not  view 
honor  in  the  same  light  as  woman  does,  when  involved  in  analo- 
gous difficulties  of  posi*^ion.      Graham  conscientiously  thought 
that  if  Isaura  so  loved  him   as  to  render  distasteful  an  engage- 
ment to  another  which  could  only  very  recently  have  been  con- 
tracted, it  would  be  more  honorable  frankly  so   to  tell  the  ac- 
cepted suitor  than   to  leave   him  in  ignorance  that  her  heart 
was  estranged.    But  these  engagements  are  very  solemn  things 
with  girls  like  Isaura,  and  hers  was  no  ordinary  obligation   of 
woman-honor.     Had  the   accepted  one  been   superior  in   rank, 
fortune,  all  that  flatters  the  ambition  of  woman   in  the  choice 
of  marriage — had  he   been   resolute,  and   strong,   and   self-de- 
pendent amid  the  trials   and  perils  of  life,   then  possibly  the 
woman's   honor   might  find  excuse   in  escaping   the   penalties 
of  its  pledge.     But  the   poor,   ailing,  infirm,   morbid  boy-poet, 
w'ho  looked  to  her  as  his  saving  angel   in  body,  in   mind,   and 
soul — to  say  to  him,  "  Give  me  back  my  freedom,"  would  be 
to  abandon  him  to  death  and  to  sin.     But  Graham  could  not  of 
course  divine  why  what  he  as  a  man  thought  right  was  to  Isaura 
as  a  woman  impossible  ;  and  he  returned  to  his  old  prejudiced 
notion  that  there  is  no  real  depth  and   ardor  of  affection   for 
human  lovers  in  the  poetess  whose  mind  and  heart  are  devoted 
to  the  creation  of  imaginary  heroes.     Absorbed  in  reverie,  he 
took  his  way  slowly  and  with  downcast  looks  towards  the  British 
embassy,  at  which  it  was  well  to  ascertain  whether  the  impend- 
ing war  yet  necessitated  special  passports  for  Germany. 

"  Bon-jour,  chcr  ami,'"  said  a  pleasant  voice  ;  "  and  how  long 
have  you  been  at  Paris  ?  " 

"Oh,  my  dear  M.  Savarin  !  Charmed  to  see  you  looking 
so  well  !  Madame  well  too,  I  trust?  My  kindest  regards  to 
her.     I  have  been  in  Paris  but  a  day  or  two,  and  I  leave  this 


evenmg." 


"  So  soon  ?  The  war  frightens  you  away,  I  suppose.  Which 
way  are  you  going  now  .^  " 

"  To  the  British  embassy." 

"  Well,  I  w'ill  go  with  you  so  far — it  is  in  my  own  direction. 
I  have  to  call  at  the  charming  Italian's  with  congratulations — 
on  news  I  only  heard  this  morning." 

"  You  mean  Mademoiselle  Cicogna — and  the  news  that  de- 
mands congratulations — her  approaching  marriage  !  " 

"  Afon  Di<ul  when  could  you  have  heard  of  that  ?  " 

'*  Last  night,  at  the  house  of  M.  Duplessis." 

"  Farbleu  "  I  shall  scold  her  well  for  confiding  to  her  new 


THE  PARISIANS.  473 

friend  VaMrie  the  secret  she  kept  from  her  old  friends,  my  wife 
and  myself." 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Graham,  with  a  tone  of  admirably- 
feigned  indifference,  "who  is  the  happy  man  ?  Ibat  part  of 
the  secret  I  did  not  hear."    1 

"  Can't  you  guess  .''  " 

"  No." 

"  Gustave  Rameau." 

"  Ah  ! "  Graham  almost  shrieked,  so  sharp  and  >jhrill  was 
his  cry.     "  Ah  !  I  ought  indeed  to  have  guessed  that  !  " 

"  Madame  Savarin,  I  fancy,  helped  to  make  up  the  mar- 
riage. I  hoi^e  it  may  turn  out  well ;  certainly  it  will  be  his 
salvation.     May  it  be  for  her  happiness  !  " 

"  No  doubt  of  that !  Two  poets — born  for  each  other,  I 
daresay.  Adieu,  my  dear  Savarin  !  Here  we  are  at  the  em- 
bassy." 


CHAPTER  VI. 


That  evening  Graham  found  himself  in  the  coupe  of  the  ex- 
press train  to  Strasbourg.  He  had  sent  to  engage  the  whole 
coupe  to  himself,  but  that  was  impossible.  One  place  was  be- 
spoken as  far  as  C ,  after  which   Graham  might  prosecute 

his  journey  alone  on  paying  for  the  three  places. 

When  he  took  his  seat,  another  man  was  in  the  farther  cor- 
ner, whom  he  scarcely  noticed.  The  train  shot  rapidly  on  for 
some  leagues.  Profound  silence  in  the  coupe,  save  at  moments 
those  heavy  impatient  sighs  that  come  from  the  very  depths  of 
the  heart,  and  of  which  he  who  sighs  is  unconscious,  burst 
from  the  Englishman's  lips,  and  drew  on  him  the  observant 
side-glance  of  his  fellow-traveller. 

At  length  the  fellow-traveller  said,  in  very  good  English, 
though  with  a  French  accent,  "  Would  you  object,  sir,  to  my 
lighting  my  little  carriage  lantern  ?  I  am  in  the  habit  of  read- 
ing in  the  night  train,  and  the  wretched  lamp  they  give  us  does 
not  permit  that.  But  if  you  wish  to  sleep,  and  my  lantern 
would  prevent  your  doing  so,  consider  my  request  unasked." 

"  You  are  most  courteous,  sir.  Pray  light  your  lantern — 
that  will  not  interfere  with  my  sleep." 

As  Graham  thus  answered,  faraway  from  the  pkce  and  the 


474  ^^^^  PARISIANS. 

moment  as  his  thoughts  were,  it  yet  faintly  struck  him  that  he 
had  heard  that  voice  before. 

The  man  produced  a  small  lantern,  which  he  attached  to 
the  window-sill,  and  drew  forth  from  a  small  leathern  bag  sun' 
dr)'  newspapers  and  pamphlets.  Graham  flung  himself  back, 
and  in  a  minute  or  so  again  came  his  sigh.  "  Allow  me  tc 
offer  you  these  evening  journals — you  may  not  have  had  time 
to  read  them  before  starting,"  said  the  fellow-traveller,  leaning 
forward,  and  extending  the  newspapers  with  one  hand,  while 
with  the  other  he  lifted  his  lantern.  Graham  turned,  and  the 
faces  of  the  two  men  were  close  to  each  other — Gralaam  with 
his  travelling-cap  drawn  over  his  brows,  and  the  other  with  head 
uncovered. 

"  Monsieur  Lebeau  !  " 

'■'  Bon-soir,  Mr,  Lamb  !  " 

Again  silence  for  a  moment  or  so.  Monsieur  Lebeau  then 
broke  it  : 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Lamb,  that  in  better  society  than  that  oi 
the  Faubourg  Montmartre  you  are  known  under  another 
name." 

Graham  had  no  heart  then  for  the  stage-play  of  a  part, 
and  answered,  with  quiet  haughtiness,  "  Possibly,  and  whal 
name  ? " 

"  Graham  Vane.  And,  sir,"  continued  Lebeau,  with  a 
haughtiness  equally  quiet,  but  somewhat  more  menacing,  "  since 
we  two  gentlemen  find  ourselves  thus  close,  do  I  ask  too  much 
if  I  inquire  why  you  condescended  to  seek  my  acquaintance  in 
disguise  ? " 

"  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  de  MauMon,  when  you  talk  of  dis- 
guise, is  it  too  much  to  inquire  why  my  acquaintance  was  ac- 
cepted by  Monsieur  Lebeau  ? " 

"  Ha  !  Then  you  confess  that  it  was  Victor  de  Mauldon 
whom  you  sought  when  you  first  visited  the  Cafe  Jean  Jacques  V 

"  Frankly  I  confess  it." 

Monsieur  Lebeau  drew  himself  back  and  seemed  to  reflect 

"  I  see  !  Solely  for  the  purpose  of  learning  whether  Victo> 
de  Mauleon  could  give  you  any  information  about  Louise  Duval 
Is  it  so  ? " 

"  Monsieur  le  Vicomte,  you  say  truly." 

Again  M.  Lebeau  paused  as  if  in  reflection  ;  and  Graham, 
in  thivt  state  of  mind  when  a  man  who  may  most  despise  and 
detest  the  practice  of  duelling  may  yet  feel  a  thrill  of  delight 
if  some  homicide  would  be  good  enough  to  put  him  out  of 
his  misery,   flung  aside   his  cap,  lifted  his   broad  frank  fore- 


THE  rARTSTANS. 


475 


head,  and  stamped  his   boot  impatiently  as  if  to  provoke  a 
quarrel. 

M.  Lebeau  lowered  his  spectacles,  and  with  those  calm, 
keen,  searching  eyes  of  his,  gazed  at  the  Englishman. 

"  It  strikes  me,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  the  fascination  of 
which  not  even  those  faded  whiskers  could  disguise,  "  it 
strikes  me  that  there  are  two  ways  in  which  gentlemen  such  as 
you  and  I  are  can  converse  :  first,  with  reservation  and  guard 
against  each  other  ;  secondly,  with  perfect  openness.  Perhaps 
of  the  two  I  have  more  need  of  reservation  and  wary  guard 
against  any  stranger  than  you  have.  Allow  me  to  propose  the 
alternative — perfect  openness.  What  say  you  ?  "  and  he  ex- 
tended his  hand. 

"  Perfect  openness,"  answered  Graham,  s-^ftened  into  sud- 
den liking  for  this  once  terrible  swordsman,  and  shaking,  as 
an  Englishman  shakes,  the  hand  held  out  to  him  in  peace  by 
the  man  from  whom  he  had  anticipated  quarrel. 

"  Permit  me  now,  before  you  address  any  questions  to  me, 
to  put  one  to  you.  How  did  you  learn  that  Victor  de  Maule'on 
was  identical  with  Jean  Lebeau  .''  " 

"  I  heard  that  from  an  agent  of  the  police." 

'•^  Ah ! " 

"  Whom  I  consulted  as  to  the  means  of  ascertaining 
whether  Louise  Duval  was  alive, — if  so,  where  she  could  be 
found." 

"  I  thank  you  very  much  for  your  information.  I  had  no 
notion  that  the  police  of  Paris  had  divined  the  original  alias 
of  poor  Monsieur  Lebeau,  though  something  occurred  at  Lyons 
which  made  me  suspect  it.  Strange  that  the  government,  knov- 
ing  through  the  police  that  Victor  de  Mauleon,  a  writer  they 
had  no  reason  to  favor,  had  been  in  so  humble  a  position,  should 
never,  even  in  their  oftlcial  journals,  have  thought  it  prudent  tc 
say  so  !  But,  now  I  think  of  it,  what  if  they  had  .''  They  could 
prove  nothing  against  Jean  Lebeau.  They  could  but  say,  'Jean 
Lebeau  is  suspected  to  be  too  warm  a  lover  of  liberty,  too  earn- 
est a  friend  of  the  people,  and  Jean  Lebeau  is  the  editor  of 
Le  Sens  Covifiiun."  '  Why,  that  assertion  would  have  made 
Victor  de  Mauleon  the  hero  of  the  Reds,  the  last  thing  a  pru- 
dent government  could  desire.  1  thank  you  cordially  for  youi 
frank  reply.     Now,  what  question  would  you  put  to  me  ?  " 

"  In  one  word,  all  you  can  tell  me  about  Louise  Duval." 

"  You  shall  have  it.  I  had  heard  vaguely  in  my  young 
days  that  a  half-sister  of  mine  by  my  father's  first  marriage 
with  Mademoiselle    de  Beauvilliers  had — when    in    advanced 


476  THE  PARISIANS. 

middle  life  he  married  a  second  time — conceived  a  dislike  for 
her  mother-in-law,  and  being    of  age,   with    an    independent 
fortune  of  her  own,  had  quitted  the  house,  taken  up  her  resi- 
dence with  an  elderly  female  relative,  and  there  had  contracted 
a  marriage  with  a  man  who  gave  her  lessons  in  drawing.    After 
that  marriage,  which  my  father  in  vain  tried  to  prevent,  my 
sister  was  renounced  by  her  family.     That  was  all  I  knew  till, 
after  I  came   into  my  inheritance    by  the   death  of  both  my 
parents,  I  learned  from  my  father's  confidential  lawyer  that 
the  drawing-master,  M.  Duvai,  had  soon  dissipated  his  wife's 
fortune,  become  a  widower  with  one  child — a  girl — and  fallen 
into  great  distress.     He  came  to  my  father,  begging  for  pecu- 
niary aid.     My  father,  though  by  no  means  rich,  consented 
to  allow  him  a  yearly   pension,  on  condition  that  he  never  re- 
vealed to  his  child  her  connection  with  our  family.     The  man 
agreed  to  the    condition,  and    called  at   my  father's    lawyer 
quarterly  for  his  annuity.     But  the  lawyer  informed  me  that 
this   deduction  from   my   income  had  ceased,  that   M.  Duval 
had  not  for  a  year  called  or  sent  for  the  sum  due  to  him,  and 
that  he  must  therefore  be   dead.     One  day  my  valet  informed 
me  that  a  young  lady  wished  to  see  me — in  those  days  young 
ladies  very  often  called  on  me.     I  desired  her  to  be  shown  in. 
There  entered  a  young  creature,  almost  of  my  own  age,  who, 
to  my  amazement,  saluted  me  as  uncle.     This  was  the  child 
of  my  half-sister.     Her  father  had  been  dead  several  months, 
fulfilling  very  faithfully  the   condition  on  which  he  had  held 
his  pension,  and  the  girl  never  dreaming  of  the   claims  that, 
if  wise,  poor  child,   she   ought  not  to  have  cared  for,  viz, — 
to   that   obsolete  useless  pauper  birthright,    a  branch  on    the 
family  tree  of  a  French  noble.     But  in  pinch  of  circumstances, 
and  from  female  curic^sity,  hunting  among  the  papers  her  father 
had  left  for  some  clue   to  the   reasons  for  the   pension  he  had 
received,  she  found  letters  from  her  mother,  letters  from  my 
father,  which    indisputably   proved   that   she   was   grandchild 
to  the  feu  Vicomte  de  Maule'on,  aud  niece   to  myself.     Her 
story  as  told  to  me   was  very  pitiable.     Conceiving  herself  to 
be  nothing   higher   in    birth  than   daughter   to   this    drawing- 
master,  at  his  death,  poor  penniless  orphan  that  she  was,  she 
had  accepted  the  hand   of   an    English    student   of   medicine 
whom    she    did  not   care    for.     Miserable   with   this    man,  on 
finding  by  the  documents   I   refer  to   that  she  was  my  niece, 
she  came  to  me  for  comfort  and  counsel.     What  counsel  could 
I  or  any  other  man  give  to  her  but  to  make  the  best  of  what  had 
happened,  and  live  with  her  husband  ?     But  then  she  started 


THE  PARISIANS. 


477 


another  question.  It  seems  that  she  had  been  talking  with 
some  one,  I  think  her  landlady,  or  some  other  woman  with 
whom  she  had  made  acquaintance.  Was  she  legally  married 
to  this  man  ?  Had  he  not  entrapped  her  innocence  into  a 
false  marriage  ?  This  became  a  grave  question,  and  I  sent  at 
once  to  my  lawyer.  On  hearing  the  circumstances,  he  at 
once  declared  that  the  marriage  was  not  legal  according  to  the 
laws  of  France.  But  doubtless  her  English  soi-disant  hus 
band  was  not  cognizant  of  the  French  law,  and  a  legal  mar- 
riage could  with  his  assent  be  at  once  solemnized.  Monsieu: 
Vane,  I  cannot  find  words  to  convey  to  you  the  joy  that  pool 
girl  showed  in  her  face  and  in  her  words  when  she  learned  that 
she  was  not  bound  to  pass  her  life  with  that  man  as  his  wife. 
It  was  in  vain  to  talk  and  reason  with  her.  Then  arose  the 
other  question,  scarcely  less  important.  True,  the  marriage 
was  not  legal  ;  but  would  it  not  be  better  on  all  accounts  to 
take  steps  to  have  it  formally  annulled,  thus  freeing  her  from 
the  harassment  of  any  claim  the  Englishman  might  advance, 
and  enabling  her  to  establish  the  facts  in  a  right  position,  not 
injurious  to  her  honor  in  the  eyes  of  any  future  suitor  to  her 
hand  ?  She  would  not  hear  of  such  a  proposal.  She  declared 
that  she  could  not  bring  to  the  family  she  pined  to  re-enter  the 
scandal  of  disgrace.  To  allow  that  she  had  made  such  a 
mesalliance  would  be  bad  enough  in  itself  ;  but  to  proclaim  to 
the  world  that  though  nominally  the  wife  she  had  in  fact  been 
only  the  mistress  of  this  rgedical  student — she  would  rather 
throw  herself  into  the  Seine.  All  she  desired  was  to  find  some 
refuge,  some  hiding-place  for  a  time,  whence  she  would  write 
to  the  man  informing  him  that  he  had  no  lawful  hold  on  her. 
Doubtless  he  would  not  seek  then  to  molest  her.  He  would  re- 
turn to  his  own  country  and  be  effaced  from  her  life.  And 
then,  her  story  unknown,  she  might  form  a  more  suitable  alli- 
ance. Fiery  young  creature  though  she  was — true  De  Mauleon 
in  being  so  fiery — she  interested  me  strongly.  I  should  say 
that  she  was  wonderfully  handsome  ;  and,  though  imperfectly 
educated  and  brought  up  in  circumstances  so  lowly,  there  was 
nothing  common  about  her — a  certain  _/>  ne  sais  qiioi  of  stateii- 
ness  and  race.  At  all  events,  she  did  with  me  what  she  wished. 
I  agreed  to  aid  her  desire  of  a  refuge  and  hiding-place.  Of 
course  I  could  not  lodge  her  in  my  own  apartment,  but  I  in- 
duced a  female  relation  of  her  mother's,  an  old  lady  living  at 
Versailles,  to  receive  her,  stating  her  birth,  but  of  course  con- 
cealing her  illegal  marriage. 

*'  From  time   to  time   I  went  to   see  her.     But  one  day  I 


4^5  THE  PARISIANS 

found  this  restless  bright-plumaged  bird  flown.  Among  the 
ladies  Avho  visited  at  her  relative's  house  was  a  certain  Madame 
Marigny,  a  very  pretty  young  widow.  Madame  Marigny  and 
Louise  formed  a  sudden  and  intimate  friendship.  The  widow 
was  moving  from  Versailles  to  an  apartment  at  Paris,  and  in- 
vited Louise  to  share  it.  She  had  consented.  I  was  not 
pleased  at  this  ;  for  the  widow  was  too  young,  and  too  much  of 
a  coquette,  to  be  a  safe  companion  to  Louise.  But  though 
professing  much  gratitude  and  great  regard  for  me,  I  had  no 
power  of  controlling  the  poor  girl's  actions.  Her  nominal  hus 
bard,  meanwhile,  had  left  France,  and  nothing  more  was  heard 
or  known  of  him.  I  saw  that  the  best  thing  that  could  possibly 
befall  Louise  was  marriage  with  some  one  rich  enough  to  grat- 
ify her  taste  for  luxury  and  pomp  ;  and  that  if  such  a  marriage 
offered  itself  she  might  be  induced  to  free  it  from  all  possible 
embarrassment  by  procuring  the  annulment  of  the  former, 
from  which  she  had  hitherto  shrunk  with  such  revolt.  This 
opportunity  presented  itself.  A  man  already  rich,  and  in  a 
career  that  promised  to  make  him  infinitely  richer,  an  associate 
of  mine  in  those  days  when  I  was  rapidly  squandering  the  rem- 
nant of  my  inheritance — this  man  saw  her  at  the  opera  in  com- 
pany with  Madame  Marigny,  fell  violently  in  love  with  her, 
and,  ascertaining  her  relationship  to  me,  besought  an  introduc- 
tion. I  was  delighted  to  give  it ;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  I  was 
then  so  reduced  to  the  bottom  of  my  casket,  I  felt  that  it  was 
becoming  impossible  for  me  to  coctinue  the  aid  I  had  hitherto 
given  to  Louise,  and  what  then  would  become  of  her  ?  I 
thought  it  fair  to  tell  Louvier " 

"  Louvier — the  financier  ?  " 

"  Ah,  that  was  a  slip  of  the  tongue ;  but  no  matter ;  there 
is  no  reason  for  concealing  his  name.  I  thought  it  right,  I  say, 
to  tell  Louvier  confidentially  the  history  of  the  unfortunate  il- 
legal marriage.  It  did  not  damp  his  ardor.  He  wooed  her  to 
the  best  of  his  power,  but  she  evidently  took  him  into  great 
dislike.  One  day  she  sent  for  me  in  much  excitement,  showed 
me  some  advertisements  in  the  French  journals  which,  though 
not  naming  her,  evidently  pointed  at  her  and  must  have  been 
dictated  by  her  soi-disant  husband.  The  advertisements  might 
certainly  lead  to  her  discovery  if  she  remained  in  Paris.  She 
entreated  my  consent  to  remove  elsewhere.  Madame  Marigny 
had  her  own  reason  for  leaving  Paris,  and  would  accompany 
her.  I  su]-)plied  her  with  the  necessary  means,  and  a  day  or  two 
afterwards  she  and  her  friend  departed,  as  I  understood,  for 
Brussels.     I  received  no  letter  from  her ;  and  my  own  aflairs 


THE  PARISIANS. 


479 


so  seriously  preoccupied  me  that  poor  Louise  might  have  passed 
altogether  out  of  my  thoughts,  had  it  not  been  for  the  suitor 
she  had  left  in  despair  behind.  Louvier  besought  me  to  ascer- 
tain her  address  ;  but  I  could  give  him  no  other  clue  to  it  than 
that  she  said  she  was  going  to  Brussels,  but  should  soon  re- 
move to  some  quiet  village.  It  was  not  a  long  time — I  can't 
remember  how  long — it  might  be  several  weeks,  perhaps  two 
or  three  months,  when  I  received  a  short  note  from  her  stating 
that  she  waited  for  a  small  remittance,  the  last  she  would  ac- 
cept from  me  ;  as  she  was  resolved,  so  soon  as  her  health  would 
permit,  to  find  means  to  maintain  herself — and  telling  me  to 
direct  to  her,  Poste  restiinte,  Aix-la-Chapelle.  I  sent  her  the 
sum  she  asked,  perhaps  a  little  more,  but  with  a  confession  re- 
luctantly wrung  from  me  that  I  was  a  ruined  man  ;  and  I  urged 
her  to  think  very  seriousl}^  before  she  refused  the  competence 
and  position  which  a  union  with  M.  Louvier  would  insure. 

"  This  last  consideration  so  pressed  on  me  that,  when  Lou- 
vier called  on  me,  I  think  that  day  or  the  next,  I  gave  him 
Louise's  note,  and  told  him  that,  if  he  were  still  as  much  in 
love  with  her  as  ever,  ies  absents  otit  toujours  tort,  and  he  had 
better  go  to  Aix-la-Chapelle  and  find  her  out ;  that  he  had  my 
hearty  approval  of  his  wooing,  and  consent  to  his  marriage, 
though  I  still  urged  the  wisdom  and  fairness,  if  she  would  take 
the  preliminary  step — which,  after  all,  the  French  law  frees  as 
much  as  possible  from  pain  and  scandal — of  annulling  the  ir- 
regular marriage  into  which  her  childlike  youth  had  been  de- 
coyed. 

"  Louvier  left  me  for  Aix-la-Chapelle.  The  very  next  day 
came  that  cruel  affliction  which  made  me  a  prey  to  the  most 
intolerable  calumny,  which  robbed  me  of  every  friend,  which 
sent  me  forth  from  my  native  country  penniless,  and  resolved 
to  be  nameless — until — until — well,  until  my  hour  could  come 
again, — every  dog,  if  not  hanged,  has  its  day  ; — when  that  af- 
fliction befell  me,  I  quitted  France,  heard  no  more  of  Louvier 
nor  of  Louise  ;  indeed,  no  letter  addressed  to  me  at  Paris 
would  have  reached " 

The  man  paused  here,  evidently  with  painful  emotion.  He 
resumed  in  the  quiet  matter  of  fact  way  in  which  he  had  com- 
menced his  narrative  : 

"  Louise  had  altogether  faded  out  of  my  remembrance  until 
your  question  revived  it.  As  it  happened,  the  question  came 
at  the  moment  when  I  meditated  resuming  my  real  name  and 
social  position.  In  so  doing,  I  should,  of  course,  come  in 
contact  with  my  old   acquaintance   Louvier  ;  and  the  name  of 


480  THE  PARISIANS. 

Louise  was  necessarily  associated  with  his.  I  called  on  hira 
and  made  myself  known.  The  slight  information  I  gave  you 
as  to  my  niece  was  gleaned  from  him.  I  may  now  say  more. 
It  appears  that  when  he  arrived  at  Aix-la-Chapelle  he  found 
that  Louise  Duval  had  left  it  a  day  or  two  previously,  and, 
according  to  scandal,  had  been  for  some  time  courted  by  a 
wealthy  and  noble  lover,  whom  she  had  gone  to  Munich  to 
meet.  Louvier  believed  this  tale,  quitted  Aix  indignantly, 
and  never  heard  more  of  her.  The  probability  is,  M.  Vane, 
that  she  must  have  been  long  dead.  But  if  living  still,  I 
feel  quite  sure  that  she  will  communicate  with  me  some  day 
or  other.  Now  that  I  have  reappeared  in  Paris  in  my  own 
name — entered  into  a  career  that,  for  good  or  for  evil,  must 
erelong  bring  my  name  very  noisily  before  the  public  — 
Louise  cannot  fail  to  hear  of  my  existence  and  my  where- 
abouts ;  and,  unless  I  am  utterly  mistaken  as  to  her  character 
she  will  assuredly  inform  me  of  her  own.  Oblige  me  with 
your  address,  and  in  that  case  I  will  let  you  know.  Of 
course  I  take  for  granted  the  assurance  you  gave  me  last 
year,  that  you  only  desire  to  discover  her  in  order  to  render 
her  some  benefit,  not  to  injure  or  molest  her .''  " 

"  Certainly.  To  that  assurance  I  pledge  my  honor.  Any 
letter  with  which  you  may  favor  me  had  better  be  directed 
to  my  London  address ;  here  is  my  card.  But,  M.  le  Vi- 
comte,  there  is  one  point  on  which  pray  pardon  me  if  I 
question  you  still.  Had  you  no  suspicion  that  there  was  one 
reason  why  this  lady  might  have  quitted  Paris  so  hastily, 
and  have  so  shrunk  from  the  thought  of  a  marriage  so  advan- 
tageous, in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  as  that  with  M.  Louvier, 
— namely,  that  she  anticipated  the  probability  of  becoming 
the  mother  of  a  child  by  the  man  whom  she  refused  to 
acknowledge  as  a  husband  t  " 

"  That  idea  did  not  strike  me  until  you  asked  me  if  she 
had  a  child.  Should  3'our  conjecture  be  correct,  it  would 
obviously  increase  her  repugnance  to  apply  for  the  annul- 
ment of  her  illegal  marriage.  But  if  Louise  is  still  living 
and  comes  across  me,  I  do  not  doubt  that,  the  motives  for 
concealment  no  longer  operating,  she  will  confide  to  me  the 
truth.  Since  we  have  been  talking  together  thus  frankly,  I 
suppose  I  may  fairly  ask  whether  I  do  not  guess  correctly  in 
supjjosing  that  this  sdi-disani  husband,  whose  name  I  forget 
— Mac — something,  perhaps  Scotch — I  think  she  said  he 
was  Ecossais, — is  dead,  and  has  left  by  will  some  legacy  to 
Louise  and  any  child  she  may  have  borne  to  him  ? " 


THE  PARISIANS.  481 

"  Not  exactly  so.  The  man,  as  you  say,  is  dead ;  but  he 
bequeathed  no  legacy  to  the  lady  who  did  not  hold  herself 
married  to  him.  But  there  are  those  connected  with  him 
who,  knowing  the  history,  think  that  some  compensation  is 
due  for  the  wrong  so  unconsciously  done  to  her,  and  yet  more 
to  any  issue  of  a  marriage  not  meant  to  be  irregular  or  illegal. 
Permit  me  now  to  explain  why  I  sought  you  in  another  guise 
and  name  than  my  own.  I  could  scarcely  place  in  M.  Lebeau 
the  confidence  which  I  now  unreservedly  place  in  the  Vicomte 
du  Mauieon." 

"  Cela  va  sans  dire.  You  believed,  then,  that  calumny 
about  the  jewels  ;  you  do  not  believe  it  now  .'"' 

"Now!  my  amazement  is  that  any  one  who  had  known 
yooi  could  believe  it." 

"  Oh,  how  often,  and  with  tears  of  rage,  in  my  exile — my 
wanderings — have  I  asked  that  question  of  myself !  That 
rage  has  ceased ;  and  I  have  but  one  feeling  left  for  that 
credulous,  fickle  Paris,  of  which  one  day  I  was  the  idol,  the 
next  the  by-word.  Well,  a  man  sometimes  plays  chess  more 
skilfully  for  having  been  long  a  mere  bystander.  He  under- 
stands better  how  to  move,  and  when  to  sacrifice  the  pieces. 
Politics,  M.  Vane,  is  the  only  exciting  game  left  to  me  at  my 
years.  At  yours,  there  is  still  that  of  love.  How  time  flies  ! 
we  are  nearing  the  station  at  which  I  descend.  I  have  kins- 
folk in  these  districts.  They  are  not  Imperialists;  they  are 
said  to  be  powerful  in  the  department.  But  before  I  apply  to 
them  in  my  own  name,  I  think  it  prudent  that  M.  Lebeau 
should  quietly  ascertain  v/hat  is  their  real  strength,  and  what 
would  be  the  prospects  of  success  if  Victor  du  Mauieon  offered 
himself  as  depute  at  the  next  election.  Wish  him  joy,  M. 
Vane !  If  he  succeed,  you  will  hear  of  him  some  day 
rowned  in  the  Capitol,  or  hurled  from  the  Tarpeian  rock." 

Here  the  train  stopped.  The  false  Lebeau  gathered  up 
his  papers,  readjusted  his  spectacles  and  his  bag,  descended 
lightly,  and,  pressing  Graham's  hand  as  he  paused  at  the 
door,  said,  "  Be  sure  I  will  not  forget  your  address  if  I  have 
anything  to  say.     Bon  voyaged' 


452 


THE  PARISIANS 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Graham  continued  his  journey  to  Strasburg.  On  arriving 
there  he  felt  very  unwell.  Strong  though  his  frame  was,  the 
anguish  and  self-struggle  through  which  he  had  passed  since 
the  day  he  had  received  in  London  Mrs.  Morley's  letter,  till 
that  on  which  he  had  finally  resolved  on  his  course  of  conduct 
at  Paris,  and  the  shock  which  had  annihilated  his  hopes  in 
Isuara's  rejection,  had  combined  to  exhaust  its  endurance, 
and  fever  had  already  commenced  when  he  took  his  place  in 
the  coupe.  If  there  be  a  thing  which  a  man  should  not  do 
when  his  system  is  undermined,  and  his  pulse  between  ninety 
and  a  hundred,  it  is  to  travel  all  night  by  a  railway  express. 
Nevertheless,  as  the  Englishman's  will  was  yet  stronger  than 
his  frame,  he  would  not  give  himself  more  than  an  hour's  rest, 
and  again  started  for  Berlin.  Long  before  he  got  to  Berlin,  the 
will  failed  him  as  well  as  the  frame.  He  was  lifted  out  of  the 
carriage,  taken  to  a  hotel  in  a  small  German  town,  and  six 
hours  afterwards  he  was  delirious.  It  was  fortunate  for  him 
that  under  such  circumstances  plenty  of  money  and  Scott's 
circular-notes  for  some  hundreds  were  found  in  his  pocket-book, 
so  that  he  did  not  fail  to  receive  attentive  nursing  and  skilful 
medical  treatment.  There,  for  the  present,  I  must  leave  him — 
leave  him  for  how  long  ?  But  any  village  apothecary  could  say 
that  fever  such  as  his  must  run  its  course.  He  was  still  in  bed, 
and  very  dimly — and  that  but  at  times — conscious,  when  the 
German  armies  were  gathering  round  the  penfold  of  Sedan. 


CHAPTER  VIIL 


When  the  news  of  the  disastrous  daj  at  Sedan  reached 
Paris,  the  first  effect  was  that  of  timid  consternation.  There 
were  a  few  cries  of  Dkheance  !  fewer  still  of  Vive  la  Rcpublique  t 
among  the  motly  crowds  ;  but  they  were  faint,  and  chiefly  by 
ragged  gamins.  A  small  body  repaired  to  Trochu,  and  offered 
him  the  sceptre,  which  he  politely  declined.  A  more  important 
and  respectable  body — for  it  comprised  the  majority  of  the 
Corps  Lcgislatif—ux^^cd  Pnlikao  to  accept  the  temporary  dicta- 
torshin   which  the  War  Minister  declined  with  equal  politeness. 


THE  PARISIANS.  483 

In  both  these  overtures  it  was  clear  that  the  imp-alse  of  the  pro- 
posers, was  toward  any  form  of  government  rather  than  republi- 
can. The  scrgens  de  ville  were  sufhcient  that  day  to  put  down  riot, 
they  did  make  a  charge  on  a  mob,  which  irimediately  ran 
away. 

The  morning  of  that  day  the  Council  of  Ten  were  summoned 
by  Lebeau — minus  only  Rameau,  who  was  still  too  unwell  to  at- 
tend, and  the  Belgian,  not  then  at  Paris  ;  but  their  places  were 
supplied  by  the  two  travelling  members,  v/ho  had  been  absent 
from  the  meeting  before  recorded.  These  were  conspirators 
better  known  in  history  than  those  I  have  before  described ; 
professional  conspirators — personages  who  from  their  youth  up- 
wards had  done  little  else  than  conspire.  Following  the  dis- 
creet plan  pursued  elsewhere  throughout  this  humble  work,  I 
give  their  names  other  than  they  bore.  One,  a  very  swarthy 
and  ill-favored  man,  between  forty  and  fifty,  I  shall  call  Paul 
Grimm — by  origin  a  German — but  by  rearing  and  character 
French  ;  from  the  hair  on  his  head,  staring  up  rough  and  ragged 
as  a  bramble-bush,  to  the  soles  of  small  narrow  feet,  shod  with 
dainty  care,  he  was  a  personal  coxcomb,  and  spent  all  he  could 
spare  on  his  dress.  A  clever  man,  not  ill-educated — a  vehe- 
ment and  effective  speaker  at  a  club.  Vanity  and  an  amorous 
temperament  had  made  him  a  conspirator,  since  he  fancied  he 
interested  the  ladies  more  in  that  capacity  than  in  any  other. 
His  companion,  Edgar  Ferrier,  would  have  been  a  journalist, 
only  hitherto  his  opinions  had  found  no  readers;  the  opinions 
were  those  of  Marat.  He  rejoiced  in  thinking  that  his  hour  for 
glory,  so  long  deferred,  had  now  arrived.  He  was  thoroughly 
sincere  :  his  father  and  grandfather  had  died  in  a  madhouse. 
Both  these  men,  insignificant  in  ordinary  times,  were  likely  to 
become  of  terrible  importance  in  the  crisis  of  a  revolution. 
They  both  had  great  power  with  the  elements  that  form  a  Paris- 
iam  mob.  The  instructions  given  to  these  members  of  the 
Council  by  Lebeau  were  brief  ;  they  were  summed  up  in  the  one 
woi  d  Decheance.  The  formidable  nature  of  a  council  apparently 
so  meanly  constituted  became  strikingly  evident  at  that  mo- 
n»ent — first,  because  it  was  so  small  in  number,  while  each  one 
of  these  could  put  in  movement  a  large  section  of  the  populace  ; 
secondly,  because,  unlike  a  revolutionary  club  or  a  numerous 
association,  no  time  was  wasted  in  idle  speeches,  and  all  were 
under  the  orders  of  one  man  of  clear  head  and  resolute  pur- 
pose ;  and  thirdly,  and  above  all,  because  one  man  supplied  the 
treasury,  and  money  for  an  object  desired  was  liberally  given 
and  promptly  at  hand.     The  meeting  did  not  last  ten  minutes 


484  ^^^^  PARISIANS. 

and  about  two  hours  afterwards  the  effects  were  visible.  Froa' 
Montmartre  and  Belleville  and  Montretout  poured  streams  of 
om'riers  with  whom  Armand  Monnier  was  a  chief  and  the 
Median  des  Fauvres  an  oracle.  Grimm  and  Ferrier  headed 
other  detachments  that  startled  the  well-dressed  idlers  on  the 
Boulevards.  The  stalwart  figure  of  the  Pole  was  seen  on  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde,towering  amidst  other  refugees,among  whom 
glided  the  Italian  champion  of  humanity.  The  cry  of  Dechcanct 
became  louder.  But  as  yet  there  were  only  a  few  cries  of  Vive 
Republique  .^— such  a  cry  was  not  on  the  orders  issued  by  Le- 
beau.  At  midnight  the  crowd  round  the  hall  of  the  Corps 
la  Lfgislatif  \s7y%  large  :  cries  of  La  Decheance  loud — a  few  cries, 
very  feeble,  of  Vive  la  RepiiHique  ! 

What  followed  on  the  4th — the  marvellous  audacity  with 
which  half  a  dozen  lawyers  belonging  to  a  pitiful  minority  in  a 
Chamber  elected  by  universal  suffrage  walked  into  the  Hotel 
de  Ville  and  said,  ''  The  Republic  is  established,  and  we  are  its 
government" — history  has  told  too  recently  for  me  to  narrate. 
On  the  evening  of  the  5th  the  Council  of  Ten  met  again  :  the 
Pole  and  the  Italian  radiant ;  Grimm  and  Ferrier  much  excited 
and  rather  drunk  ;  the  Medecin  des  Fauvres  thoughtful  ;  and  Ar- 
mand Monnier  gloomy.  A  rumor  has  spread  that  General 
Trochu,  in  accepting  the  charge  imposed  on  him,  has  exacted 
from  the  government  the  solemn  assurance  of  respect  for  God 
and  for  the  rights  of  Family  and  Property.  The  Atheist  is 
very  indignant  at  the  assent  of  the  government  to  the  first 
proposition;  Monnier  equally  indignant  at  the  assent  to  the 
second  and  third.  What  has  that  honest  ouvrier  conspired  for, 
— what  has  he  suffered  for, — of  late  nearly  starved  for, — but  to 
marr)'  another  man's  wife,  getting  rid  of  his  own,  and  to  legal- 
ize a  participation  in  the  property  of  his  employer  ? — and  now 
he  is  no  better  off  than  before.  "  There  must  be  another  re- 
volution," he  whispers  to  the  Atheist. 

"  Certainly,"  whispers  back  the  Atheist :  "  he  who  desires 
to  better  this  woild  must  destroy  all  belief  in  another." 

The  conclave  was  assembled  when  Lebeau  entered  by  the 
private  door.  He  took  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and, 
fixing  on  the  group  eyes  that  emitted  a  cold  gleam  through  the 
spectacles,  thus  spoke  : 

"  Messieurs,  or  Citoyens,  which  ye  will — I  no  longer  call 
you  confreres — you  have  disobeyed  or  blundered  my  instruc- 
tions. On  such  an  occasion  disobedience  and  blunder  ar0 
crimes  equally  heinous  " 

Angry  murnuus. 


THE  PARISIANS. 


485 


"  Silence  !  Do  not  add  mutiny  to  your  other  offences.  My 
instructions  were  simple  and  short.  Aid  in  the  abolition  of  the 
Empire.  Do  not  aid  in  any  senseless  cry  for  a  Republic  or  any 
other  form  of  government.  Leave  that  to  the  Legislature, 
What  have  you  done  .''  You  swelled  the  crowd  that  invaded 
the  Corps  Legislatif.  You,  Loubisky,  not  even  a  Frenchman, 
dare  to  mount  the  President's  rostrum  and  brawl  forth  your 
senseless  jargon.  You,  Edgar  Ferrier,  from  whom  I  expected  bet- 
ter, ascend  the  tribune,  and  invite  the  ruffians  in  the  crowd  to 
march  to  the  prisons  and  release  the  convicts  ;  and  all  of  you 
swell  the  mob  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  inaugurate  the  reign 
of  folly  by  creating  an  oligarchy  of  lawyers  to  resist  the  march 
of  triumphal  armies.  Messieurs,  I  have  done  with  you.  You 
are  summoned  for  the  last  time  :  the  Council  is  dissolved. 

With  these  words  Lebeau  put  on  his  hat,  and  turned  to 
depart.  But  the  Pole,  who  was  seated  near  him,  sprang  to 
his  feet,  exclaiming,  "  Traitor,  thou  shalt  not  escape  I  Com- 
rades, he  wants  to  sell  us  !  " 

"I  have  a  right  to  %^V^  you,  at  least,  for  I  bought  you,  and 
a  very  bad  bargain  I  made,"  said  Lebeau,  in  a  tone  of  wither- 
ing sarcasm. 

"  Liar  !  "  cried  the  Pole,  and  seized  Lebeau  by  the  left  hand, 
while  with  the  right  he  drew  forth  a  revolver.  Farrier  and 
Grimm,  shouting  '''■  A  has  le  renegai  ! '''  would  have  rushed  for- 
ward in  support  of  the  Pole,  but  Monnier  thrust  himself  be- 
tween them  and  their  intended  victim,  crying  with  a  voice  that 
dominated  their  yell,  "Back  ! — we  are  not  assassins."  Before 
he  had  finished  the  sentence,  the  Pole  was  on  his  knees.  With 
a  vigor  which  no  one  could  have  expected  from  the  seeming 
sexagenarian,  Lebeau  had  caught  the  right  arm  of  his  assailant, 
and  twisted  it  back  so  mercilessly  as  almost  to  dislocate  elbow 
and  shoulder-joint.  One  barrel  of  the  revolver  discharged 
itself  harmlessly  against  the  opposite  wall,  and  the  pistol  itself 
then  fell  from  the  unnerved  hand  of  the  would-be  assassin  ; 
and,  what  with  the  pain  and  the  sudden  shock,  the  stalwart 
Loubisky  fell  in  the  attitude  of  a  suppliant  at  the  feet  of  his 
unlooked-for  vanquisher. 

Lebeau  released  his  hold,  possessed  himself  of  the  pistol, 
pointing  the  barrels  towards  Edgar  Ferrier,  who  stood  with 
mouth  agape  and  lifted  ann  arrested,  and  said  quietly,  "  Mon 
sieur,  have  the  goodness  to  open  that  window."  Ferrier  mechan- 
ically obeyed.  "  Now,  hireling,"  continued  Lebeau,  addressing 
the  vanquished  Pole,  "choose  between  the   door  and  the  win- 


486 


THE  PARISIANS. 


dow."  "  Go,  my  friend,"  whispered  the  Italian.  The  Pole  did 
not  utter  a  word,  but,  rising  nimbly,  and  rubbing  his  ann, 
stalked  to  the  door.  There  he  paused  a  moment  and  said,  "  I 
retire  overpowered  by  numbers,"  and  vanished. 

"  Messieurs,"  resumed  Lebeau,  calmly,  "  I  repeat  that  the 
C')uncil  is  dissolved.  In  fact,  its  object  is  fulfilled  more 
abruptly  than  any  of  us  foresaw,  and  by  means  which  I  at  least 
had  been  too  long  out  of  Paris  to  divine  as  possible.  I  now  see 
that  every  aberration  of  reason  is  possible  to  the  Parisians.  The 
object  that  united  us  was  the  fall  of  the  Empire.  As  I  have 
ahva3's  frankly  told  you,  with  that  object  achieved,  separation 
commences.  Each  of  us  has  his  own  crotchet,  which  differs 
from  the  other  man's.  Pursue  yours  as  you  will — I  pursue 
mine — you  will  find  Jean  Lebeau  no  more  in  Paris  :  il  s' efface, 
Au  plaisir,  fnais  pas  au  revoir," 

He  retreated  to  the  masked  door  and  disappeared. 

Marc  le  Roux,  the  porter  or  custos  of  that  ruinous  council- 
hall,  alarmed  at  the  explosion  of  the  pistol,  had  hurried  into 
the  room,  and  now  stood  unheeded  by  the  door  with  mouth 
agape,  while  Lebeau  thus  curtly  dissolved  the  assembly.  But 
when  the  President  vanished  through  the  secret  doorwav  Le 
Roux  also  retreated.  Hastily  descending  the  stairs,  he  made 
as  quickly  as  his  legs  could  carry  him  for  the  mouth  of  the  alley 
in  the  rear  of  the  house,  through  which  he  knew  that  Lebeau 
must  pass.  He  arrived,  panting  and  breathless,  in  time  to 
catch  hold  of  the  ex-president's  arm.  "  Pardon,  citizen,"  stam- 
mered he,  "  but  do  I  understand  that  you  have  sent  the 
Council  of  Ten  to  the  devil .'  " 

"  I  ?  Certainly  not,  my  good  Marc  ;  I  dismiss  them  to  go 
where  they  like.  If  they  prefer  the  discretion  you  name,  it  is 
their  own  choice.  I  decline  to  accompany  them  ;  and  I  advise 
you  not  to  do  so." 

"But,  citizen,  have  you  considered  what  is  to  become  of 
Madame  ?  Is  she  to  be  turned  out  of  the  lodge  ?  Are  my 
wages  to  stop,  and  Madame  to  be  left  without  a  crust  to  jnit 
into  her  soup  ?  " 

"  Not  so  bad  as  that ;  I  have  just  paid  the  rent  of  the 
haraque  for  three  months  in  advance,  and  there  is  your  quar- 
ter's pay,  in  advance  also.  My  kind  regards  to  Madame,  and 
tell  her  to  keep  your  skin  safe  from  the  schemes  of  these  luna- 
tics." Thrusting  some  pieces  of  gold  into  the  hands  of  the 
porter,  Lebeau  nodded  his  adieu,  and  hastened  along  his  way. 

Absorbed  iu  his  own  reflections,  he  did  not   turn  to  look 


THE  PARISIANS.  487 

behind.  But  if  he  had,  he  could  not  have  detected  the  dark 
form  of  the  porter,  creeping  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  streets 
with  distant  but  watcliful  footsteps. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


The  conspirators,  when  left  by  their  president,  dispersed 
in  deep,  not  noisy  resentment.  They  were  indeed  too  stunned 
for  loud  demonstration  ;  and  belonging  to  different  grades  of 
life,  and  entertaining  different  opinions,  their  confidence  in  each 
other  seemed  lost  now  that  the  chief  who  had  brought  and  kept 
them  together  was  withdrawn  from  their  union.  The  Italian 
and  the  Atheist  slank  away,  whispering  to  each  other.  Grimm 
reproached  Terrier  for  deserting  Loubisky  and  obeying  Lebeau. 
Terrier  accused  Grimm  of  his  German  origin,  and  hinted  at 
denouncing  him  as  a  Prussian  spy.  Gaspard  le  Noy  linked  his 
arm  in  Monnier's,  and  when  they  had  gained  the  dark  street 
without,  leading  into  a  labyrinth  of  desolate  lines,  the  Medeciii 
des  Pauvres  said  to  the  mechanic,  "  You  are  a  brave  fellow, 
Monnier.  Lebeau  owes  you  a  good  turn.  But  for  your  cry, 
'  We  are  not  assassins,"  the  Pole  might  not  have  been  left  with- 
out support.  No  atmosphere  is  so  infectious  as  that  in  which 
we  breathe  the  same  air  of  revenge  :  when  the  violence  of  one 
man  puts  into  action  the  anger  or  suspicion  of  others,  they  be- 
come like  a  pack  of  hounds,  which  follow  the  spring  of  the  first 
hound,  whether  on  the  wild  boar  or  their  own  master.  Even  I, 
who  am  by  no  means  hot-headed,  had  my  hand  on  my  case- 
knife  when  the  word  '  assassins  '  rebuked  and  disarmed  me." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Monnier,  gloomily,  "I  half  repent 
the  impulse  which  made  me  interfere  to  save  that  man.  Better 
he  should  die  than  live  to  betray  the  cause  we  allowed  him  to 
lead." 

"  Nay,  mon  'ami,  speaking  candidly,  we  must  confess  that 
he  never  from  the  first  pr^ended  to  advocate  the  cause  for 
which  you  conspired.  On  the  contrary,  he  always  said  that 
with  the  fall  of  the  Empire  our  union  would  cease,  and  eacii 
become  free  to  choose  his  own  way  towards  his  own  after- 
objects." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Armand,   reluctantly ;  "  he   said  that  to 


488  THE  PARISIa/VS. 

me  privately,  with  still  greater  plainness  than  he  said  it  to  tlie 
Council,     But  I  answered  as  plainly." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  I  told  him  that  the  man  who  takes  the  first  step  in  a 
revolution,  and  persuades  others  to  go  along  with  hlro,  cannot 
in  safety  stand  still  or  retreat  when  the  next  step  is  to  be 
taken.  It  is  V«  avant '  or  ^  a  /a  lai'ierne.'  So  it  shall  be  with 
him  Shall  a  fellow-being  avail  himself  of  the  power  over  my 
mind  which  he  derives  from  superior  education  or  experience, 
— break  into  wild  fragments  my  life,  heretofore  tranquil, 
orderly,  happy, — make  use  of  my  opinions,  which  were  then 
but  harmless  desires,  to  serve  his  own  purpose,  which  was  hos- 
tile to  the  opinions  he  roused  into  action, — say  to  me,  '  Give 
yourself  up  to  destroy  the  first  obstacle  in  the  way  of  securmg 
a  form  of  society  which  your  inclinations  prefer,'  and  then,  that 
first  obstacle  destroyed,  cry,  '  Halt !  I  go  with  you  no  further ; 
I  will  not  help  you  to  piece  together  the  life  J  have  induced 
you  to  shatter ;  I  will  not  aid  you  to  substitute  for  the  society 
that  pained  you  the  society  that  would  please ;  I  leave  you, 
struggling,  bewildered,  maddened,  in  the  midst  of  chaos  within 
and  without  you  '  ?  Shall  a  fellow-being  do  this,  and  vanish 
wilh  a  mocking  cry,  '  Tool !  I  have  had  enough  of  thee  ;  I  cast 
thee  aside  as  worthless  lumber  ? '  Ah  !  let  him  beware  !  The 
tool  is  of  iron,  and  can  be  shaped  to  edge  and  point." 

The  passion  with  which  this  rough  eloquence  was  uttered, 
and  the  fierce  sinister  expression  that  had  come  over  a  counte- 
nance habitually  open  and  manly,  even  when  grave  and  stern, 
alarmed  and  startled  Le  Noy.  "  Pooh,  my  friend  !  "  he  said, 
rather  falteringly,  "you  are  too  excited  now  to  think  justly. 
Go  home  and  kiss  your  children.'  Never  do  anything  that  may 
make  them  shrink  from  their  father.  And  as  to  Lebeau,  try 
and  forget  him.  He  says  he  shall  disappear  from  Paris.  I 
believe  him.  It  is  clear  to  me  that  the  man  is  not  what  he 
seemed  to  us.  No  man  of  sixty  could  by  so  easy  a  sleight  of 
hand  have  brought  that  giant  Pole  to  his  knee.  If  Lebeau  re- 
appear it  will  be  in  some  other  form.  Did  you  notice  that  in 
the  momentary  struggle  his  flaxen  wig  got  disturbed  ?  and  be- 
neath it  I  saw  a  dark  curl.  I  suspect  that  the  man  is  not  only 
younger  than  he  seemed,  but  of  higher  rank, — a  conspirator 
against  one  throne,  perhaps,  in  order  to  be  minister  unlo 
another.     There  are  such  nien." 

Before  Monnier,  who  seemed  struck  by  these  conjectures, 
collected  his  thoughts  to  answer,  a  tall  man  in  the  dress  of  a 
ious-lieukuant  stopped   under   a   dim  gas-lamp,  and,  catching 


THE  PARISIANS. 


489 


sight  of  the  artisan's  face,  seized  him  by  the  hand,  exclaiming, 
*  Armand,  mon  frere:  well    met;  strange    times,  eh  ?       Come 
and  discuss  them  at  the  Cafe  de  Lyon  yonder,  over  a  bowl  of 
punch.     I'll  stand  treat." 

"  Agreed,  dear  Charles." 

"  And  if  this  monsieur  is  a  friend  of  yours  perhaps  he  will 
join  us." 

"  You  are  too  obliging,  Monsieur,"  answered  Le  Noy,  not 
ill  pleased  to  get  rid  of  his  excited  companion  ;  "  but  it  has 
been  a  busy  day  with  me,  and  I  am  only  fit  for  bed.  Be  ab- 
stinent of  the  punch,  Armand,  You  are  feverish  already. 
Good-night,  Messieurs." 

The  Cafe  de  Lyon,  in  vogue  among  the  National  Guard  of 
the  quartier,  was  but  a  few  yards  ofif,  and  the  brothers  turned 
towards  it  arm  in  arm.  "Who  is  the  friend  .?  "  asked  Charles ; 
"  I  don't  remember  to  have  seen  him  with  thee  before." 

"  He  belongs  to  the  medical  craft — a  good  patriot  and  a 
kind  man — attends  the  poor  gratuitously.  Yes,  Charles,  these 
are  strange  times ;  what  dost  thuu  think  will  come  of  them  ? 

They  had  now  entered  the  cafe  ;  and  Charles  had  ordered 
the  punch,  and  seated  himself  at  a  vacant  table  before  he  re- 
plied. "What  will  come  of  these  times?  I  will  tell  thee. 
National  deliverance  and  regeneration  through  the  ascendency 
of  the  National  Guard." 

"  Eh  ?     I  don't  take,"  said  Armand,  bewildered. 

"  Probably  not,"  answered  Charles,  with  an  air  of  compas- 
sionate conceit ;  "  thou  art  a  dreamer,  but  I  am  a  politician." 
He  tapped  his  forehead  significantly.  "  At  this  custom-house 
ideas  are  examined  before  they  are  passed." 

Armand  gazed  at  his  brother  wistfully,  and  with  a  defer- 
ence he  rarely  manifested  towards  any  one  who  disputed  his 
own  claims  to  superior  intelligence.  Charles  was  a  few  years 
older  than  Monnier ;  he  was  of  larger  build  ;  he  had  shaggy 
lowering  eyebrows,  a  long  obstinate  upper  lip,  the  face  of  a 
man  who  was  accustomed  to  lay  down  the  law.  Inordinate 
self-esteem  often  gives  that  character  to  a  physiognomy  other- 
wise commonplace.  Charles  passed  for  a  deep  thinker  in  hb 
own  set,  which  was  a  very  different  set  from  Armand's — not 
among  workmen,  but  small  shopkeepers.  He  had  risen  in  '.ife 
to  a  grade  beyond  Armand's  ;  he  had  always  looked  to  the 
main  chance  ;  married  the  widow  of  a  hosier  and  glover  much 
older  than  himself,  and  in  her  right  was  a  very  respectable 
tradesman,  comfortably  well  off;  a  Liberal,  of  course,  but  a 
Liberal  bourgeois,  equally  against  those  above  him   and  those 


49  o  THE  PAK/S/AXS. 

below.  Needless  to  add  that  he  had  no  sympathy  wxih  his 
brother's  socialistic  opinions.  Still,  he  loved  that  brother  as 
well  as  he  could  love  anyone  except  himself  And  Arinand, 
who  was  very  affectionate,  and  with  whom  family  ties  were  very 
strong,  returned  that  love  with  ample  interest ;  and  though  so 
fiercely  at  war  with  the  class  to  which  Charles  belonged,  was 
secretly  proud  of  having  a  brother  who  was  of  that  class.  So 
in  England  I  ha\-e  known  the  most  violent  antagonist  of  the 
landed  aristocracy — himself  a  cobbler — who  interrupts  a  dis- 
course on  the  crimes  of  the  aristocracy  by  saying,  "  Though  I 
myself  descend  from  a  county  family." 

In  an  evil  day  Charles  Monnier,  enrolled  in  the  National 
Guard,  had  received  promotion  in  that  patriotic  corps.  From 
that  date  he  began  to  neglect  his  shop,  to  criticise  military  mat- 
ters, and  to  think  if  merit  had  fair  play  he  should  be  a  Cincin- 
natus  or  a  Washington,  he  had  not  decided  which. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  Charles,  ladling  out  the  punch,  "  thou  hast 
wit  enough  to  perceive  that  our  generals  are  imbeciles  or  trai- 
tors ;  that  gredin  Bonaparte  has  sold  the  army  for  ten  millions 
of  francs  to  Bismarck,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  Wimpffen  has 
his  share  of  the  bargain.  McMahon  was  wounded  conveniently, 
and  has  his  own  terms  for  it.  The  regular  army  is  nowhere. 
Thou  wilt  see — thou  wilt  see — they  will  not  stop  the  march  of 
the  Prussians,  Trochu  will  be  obliged  to  come  to  the  National 
Guard.  Then  we  shall  say,  '  General,  give  us  our  terms,  and 
go  to  sleep.'  I  shall  be  summoned  to  the  council  of  war.  I 
have  my  plan.  I  explain  it — 'tis  accepted — it  succeeds.  I  am 
placed  in  supreme  command — the  Prussians  are  chased  back  to 
their  sour-krout.  And  I — well,  I  don't  like  to  boast,  but  thou'lt 
see — thou'lt  see — what  will  happen." 

"  And  thy  plan,  Charles — thou  hast  formed  it  already  }  " 

"  Ay,  ay — the  really  military  genius  is  prompt,  m on  petit  Ar- 
mand — a  flash  of  the  brain.  Hark  ye  !  let  the  vandals  come  to 
Paris  and  invest  it.  Whatever  their  numbers  on  paper,  I  don't 
care  a  button  ;  they  can  only  have  a  few  thousand  at  any  given 
point  in  the  vast  circumference  of  the  capital.  Any  fool  musl 
grant  that — thou  must  grant  it,  eh  ?  " 

"  It  seems  just." 

"  Of  course.  Well,  then,  we  proceed  by  sorties  of  two  hun- 
dred thousand  men  repeated  every  other  day,  and  in  twelve  days 
the  Prussians  are  in  full  flight.*     The   country  rises  on  their 

•  Chnrles  Monnier  seems  to  have  indiscreetly  blabbed  out  his  "  idea," 
loi  it  was  plagiarized  afterwards  at  a  meeting  of  the  National  Guards  in  the 


THE  PARISIANS. 


49 1 


flight — they  are  cut  to  pieces.  I  depose  Trochu — the  National 
Guard  elects  the  Saviour  of  France.  I  have  a  place  in  my  eye 
foi  thee.  Thou  art  superb  as  a  decorator — thou  shalt  be  Min- 
ister des  Beaux  Arts.  But  keep  clear  of  the  canaille.  No  more 
strikes  then — thou  wilt  be  an  employer — respect  thy  future 
order.' 

Armand  smiled  mournfully.  Though  of  intellect  which,  had 
it  been  disciplined,  was  far  superior  to  his  brother's,  it  was  so 
estranged  from  practical  opinions,  so  warped,  so  heated,  so 
flawed  and  cracked  in  parts,  that  he  did  not  see  the  ridicule  of 
Charles's  braggadocio.  Charles  had  succeeded  in  life,  Armand 
had  failed  ;  and  Armand  believed  in  the  worldly  wisdom  of  the 
elder-born.  But  he  was  far  too  sincere  for  any  bribe  'to  tempt 
him  to  forsake  his  creed  and  betray  his  opinions.  And  he  knew 
that  it  must  be  a  very  different  revolution  from  that  which  his 
brother  contemplated,  that  could  allow  him  to  marry  another 
man's  wife,  and  his  "  order  "  to  confiscate  other  people's  prop- 
erty. 

"  Don't  talk  of  strikes,  Charles.  What  is  done  is  done.  I 
was  lead  into  heading  a  strike,  not  on  my  own  account,  for  I 
was  well  paid  and  well  off,  but  for  the  sake  of  my  fellow-work- 
men. I  may  regret  now  what  I  did,  for  the  sake  of  Marie  and 
the  little  ones.  But  it  is  an  affair  of  honor,  and  I  cannot  with- 
draw the  cause  till  my  order,  as  thou  namest  my  class,  has  its 
rights." 

"  Bah  !  thou  wilt  think  better  of  it  when  thou  art  an  em- 
ployer. Thou  has  suffered  enough  already.  Remember  that  I 
warned  thee  against  that  old  fellow  in  spectacles  whom  I  met 
once  at  thy  house.  I  told  thee  he  would  lead  thee  into  mischief 
and  then  leave  thee  to  get  out  of  it.  I  saw  through  him.  I 
have  a  head.      Va  f  " 

"  Thou  wert  a  true  prophet — he  has  duped  me.  But  in  mov- 
ing me  he  has  set  others  in  movement ;  and  1  suspect  he  will 
find  he  has  duped  himself.     Time  will  show." 

Here  the  brothers  were  joined  by  some  loungers  belonging 
to  the  National  Guard.  The  talk  became  general,  the  potations 
large.  Towards  daybreak  Armand  reeled  home,  drunk  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life.     He  was  one  of  those  whom  drink  makes 

Salle  de  la  Bourse  by  Citizen  Rochebrune  (slain  19th  January,  1871,  in  the 
affair  of  Montretout),  The  plan,  which  he  developed  nearly  in  the  same 
words  as  Charles  Monnier,  was  received  with  lively  applause  ;  and  at  the 
close  of  his  speech  it  was  proposed  to  name  at  once  Citizen  Rochebrune 
General  of  the  National  Guard — an  honor  which,  unhappily  for  his  country, 
the  citizen  had  the  modesty  to  decline. 


,  4Q2  THE  PARISIANS. 

violent.  Marie  had  been  silting  up  for  him,  alarmed  at  his 
lengthened  absence.  But  when  she  would  have  thrown  herself 
on  his  breast,  her  pale  face  and  her  passionate  sobs  enraged 
him.  He  tiung  her  aside  roughly.  From  that  night  the  man's 
nature  was  changed.  If,  as  a  physiognomist  has  said,  each  man 
has  in  him  a  portion  of  the  wild  beast,  which  is  suppressed  by 
mild  civilizing  circumstances,  and  comes  uppermost  when  self- 
control  is  lost,  the  nature  of  many  an  honest  workman,  humane 
and  tender-hearted  as  the  best  of  us,  commenced  a  change  into 
the  wild  beast,  that  raged  through  the  civil  war  of  the  Commu- 
nists, on  the  day  when  half  a  dozen  Incapables,  with  no  more 
claim  to  repres>ent  the  people  of  Paris  than  half  a  dozen  mon- 
keys would  have,  were  allowed  to  elect  themselves  to  supreme 
power,  and  in  the  very  fact  of  that  election  released  all  the  ele- 
ments of  passion  and  destroyed  all  the  bulwarks  of  order. 


CHAPTER  X. 

No  man  perhaps  had  more  earnestly  sought  and  more  pas- 
sionately striven  for  the  fall  of  the  Empire  than  Victor  de  Mau- 
Idon  ;  and  perhaps  no  man  was  more  dissatisfied  with  and  dis- 
appointed by  the  immediate  consequences  of  that  fall.  In  first 
conspiring  against  the  Empire,  he  had  naturally  enough,  in 
common  with  all  the  more  intelligent  enemies  of  the  dynasty, 
presumed  that  its  fate  would  be  worked  out  by  the  normal  effect 
of  civil  causes — the  alienation  of  the  educated  classes,  the  dis- 
content of  the  artisans,  the  eloquence  of  the  press  and  of  pop- 
ular meetings,  strengthened  in  proportion  as  the  Emperor  had 
been  compelled  to  relax  the  former  checks  upon  the  license  of 
either.  And  De  Mauleon  had  no  less  naturally  concluded  that 
there  would  be  time  given  for  the  preparation  of  a  legitimate 
and  rational  form  of  government  to  succeed  that  which  was  de-! 
stroyed.  For,  as  has  been  hinted  or  implied,  this  remarkable 
man  was  not  merely  an  instigator  of  revolution  through  the 
Secret  Council  and  the  turbulent  agencies  set  in  movement 
throufrh  the  lower  strata  of  societv  ;  he  was  also  in  confidential 
communication  with  men  emment  for  wealth  station,  and  poli- 
tical repute,  from  whom  he  obtained  the  funds  necessary  for  the 
darker  purposes  of  conspiracy,  into  the  elaboration  of  which 
they  did   not   inquire;  and   these  men,  though  belonging  like 


THE  PARISIANS.  4^3 

himself  to  the  Liberal  party,  were  no  hot-blooded  democrats. 
Most  of  them  were  in  favor  of  constitutional  monarchy ;  all  of 
them  for  forms  of  government  very  different  from  any  republic 
in  which  socialists  or  communists  could  find  themselves  upper- 
most. Among  these  politicians  were  persons  ambitious  and 
able,  who  in  scheming  for  the  fall  of  the  Empire  had  been  pre- 
pared to  undertake  the  task  of  conducting  to  ends  compatible 
with  modern  civilization  the  revolution  they  were  willing  to 
allow  a  mob  at  Paris  to  commence.  The  opening  of  the  war 
necessarily  suspended  their  designs.  How  completely  the 
events  of  the  4th  September  mocked  the  calculations  of  the 
ablest  minds  and  paralyzed  the  action  of  their  most  energetic 
spirits,  will  appear  in  the  conversation  I  am  about  to  record.  It 
takes  place  between  Victor  de  Mauleon  and  the  personage  to 
whom  he  had  addressed  the  letter  written  on  the  night  before 
the  interview  with  Louvier,  in  which  Victor  had  announced  his 
intention  of  reappearing  in  his  proper  name  and  rank.  I  shall 
designate  this  correspondent  as  vaguely  as  possible  ;  let  me  call 
him  the  Incognito.  He  may  yet  play  so  considerable  a  part  in 
the  history  of  France  as  a  potent  representative  of  the  political 
philosophy  of  De  Tocqueville — that  is,  of  Liberal  principles  in- 
compatible with  the  absolute  power  either  of  a  sovereign  or  a 
populace,  and  resolutely  opposed  to  experiments  on  the  founda- 
tions of  civilized  society — that  it  would  be  unfair  to  himself 
and  his  partisans  if,  in  a  work  like  this,  a  word  were  said  that 
could  lead  malignant  conjecture  to  his  identity  with  any  special 
chief  of  the  opinions  of  which  I  here  present  him  only  as  a 
type. 

The  Incognito,  entering  Victor's  apartment ; — 
"  My  dear  friend,  even  if  I  had  not  received  your  telegram, 
I  should  have  hastened  hither  on  the  news  of  this  astounding 
revolution.  It  is  only  in  Paris  that  such  a  tragedy  could  be 
followed  by  such  a  farce.  You  were  on  the  spot — a  spectator. 
Explain  it,  if  you  can." 

De  Mauleon. — "  I  was  more  than  a  spectator ;  I  was  an 
actor.  Hiss  me — I  deserve  it.  When  the  terrible  news  from 
Sedan  reached  Paris,  in  the  midst  of  the  general  stun  and  be- 
wilderment I  noticed  a  hesitating  timidity  among  all  those  who 
had  wares  in  their  shops  and  a  good  coat  on  their  backs. 
They  feared  that  to  proclaim  the  Empire  defunct  would  be  to 
install  the  Red  Republic,  with  all  its  paroxysm  of  impulsive 
rage  and  all  its  theories  of  wholesale  confiscation.  But  since 
it  was  impossible  for  the  object  we  had  in  view  to  let  slip  the 
occasion  of  deposing  the  dynasty  which  stood  in  its  way,  it  was 


494  ^^^^'  J'AI?ISIAI\rs. 

necessary  to  lose  no  time  in  using  the  revolutionary  part  of  the 
populace  for  that  purpose.  I  assisted  in  doing  so  ;  my  excuse 
in  this — that  in  a  time  of  crisis  a  man  of  action  must  go  straight 
to  his  immediate  object,  and  in  so  doing  employ  the  instruments 
at  his  command.  I  made,  however,  one  error  in  judgment 
which  admits  of  no  excuse.  1  relied  on  all  I  had  observed,  of 
the  character  of  Trochu,  and  I  was  deceived,  in  common,  I 
believe,  with  all  his  admirers,  and  three  parts  of  the  educated 
classes  of  Paris." 

Inxognito. — "  I  should  have  been  equally  deceived ! 
Trochu's  conduct  is  a  riddle  that  I  doubt  if  he  himself  can 
ever  solve.  He  was  master  of  the  position  ;  he  had  the  mili- 
tary force  in  his  hands  if  he  combined  with  Palikao,  which, 
whatever  the  jealousies  between  the  two,  it  was  his  absolute 
duty  to  do.     He  had  a  great  prestige " 

De  Mauleon. — "  And  for  the  moment  a  still  greater  popu- 
larity. His  ipse  dixit  could  have  determined  the  wavering  and 
confused  spirits  of  the  population.  I  was  prepared  for  his 
abandonment  of  the  Emperor — even  of  the  Empress  and  the 
Regency.  But  how  could  I  imagine  that  he,  the  man  of 
moderate  politics,  of  Orleanistic  leanings,  the  clever  writer,  the 
fine  talker,  the  chivalrous  soldier,  the  religious  Breton,  could 
abandon  everything  that  was  legal,  everything  that  could  save 
France  against  the  enemy,  and  Paris  against  civil  discord  ! 
that  he  would  connive  at  the  annihilation  of  the  Senate,  of  the 
popular  Assembly,  of  every  form  of  government  that  could  be 
recognized  as  legitimate  at  home  or  abroad,  accept  service  un- 
der men  whose  doctrines  were  opposed  to  all  his  antecedents,  all 
his  professed  opinions,  and  inaugurate  a  chaos  under  the  name 
of  a  Republic  !  " 

Incognito. — "  How,  indeed !  How  suppose  that  the 
National  Assembly,  just  elected  by  a  majority  of  seven  millions 
and  a  half,  could  be  hurried  into  a  conjuring-box,  and  reappear 
as  the  travesty  of  a  Venetian  oligarchy,  composed  of  half  a 
dozen  of  its  mort  unpopular  members !  The  sole  excuse  for 
Trochu  is  that  he  deemed  all  other  considerations  insignificant 
compared  with  the  defence  of  Paris  and  the  united  action  of 
llie  nation  against  the  invaders.  But,  if  that  were  his  honest 
desrre,  in  siding  with  this  monstrous  usurpation  of  power  he 
did  everything  by  which  the  desire  could  be  frustrated.  Had 
there  been  any  provisional  body,  composed  of  men  known  and 
esteemed,  elected  by  the  Chambers,  supported  by  Trochu  and 
the  troops  at  his  back,  there  would  have  been  a  rallying-point 
for  the  patriotism  of  the  provinces  ;  and   in  the  wise  suspense 


THE  PARiS.^ANS. 


495 


of  any  constitution  to  succeed  that  government  until  the  enemy 
were  chased  from  the  field,  all  partisans  —  Imperialists, 
Legitimists,  Orleanists,  Republicans  —  would  have  equally 
adjourned  their  differences.  But  a  democratic  Republic,  pro- 
claimed by  a  Parisian  mob  for  a  nation  in  which  sincere  demo- 
cratic  Republicans  are  a  handful,  in  contempt  of  an  Assembly 
chosen  by  the  country  at  large  ;  headed  by  men  in  whom  the 
provinces  have  no  trust,  and  for  whom  their  own  representatives 
are  violently  cashiered  ; — can  you  conceive  such  a  combination 
of  wet  blankets  supplied  by  the  irony  of  fate  for  the  extinction 
of  every  spark  of  ardor  in  the  population  from  which  armies 
are  to  be  gathered  in  haste,  at  the  beck  of  usurpers  they  distrust 
and  despise  ?  Paris  has  excelled  itself  in  folly.  Hungering 
for  peace,  it  proclaims  a  government  which  has  no  legal  power 
to  treat  for  it.  Shrieking  out  for  allies  among  the  monarchies, 
it  annihilates  the  hope  of  obtaining  them ;  its  sole  chance  of 
escape  from  siege,  famine,  and  bombardment  is  in  the  immediate 
and  impassioned  sympathy  of  the  provinces  ;  and  it  revives 
all  the  grudges  which  the  provinces  have  long  sullenly  felt 
against  the  domineering  pretensions  of  the  capital,  and  invokes 
the  rural  populations,  which  comprise  the  pith  and  sinew  of 
armies,  in  the  name  of  men  whom  I  verily  believe  they  detest 
still  more  than  they  do  the  Prussians.  Victor,  it  is  enough  to 
make  one  despair  of  his  country  !  All  beyond  the  hour  seems 
anarchy  and  ruin." 

"  Not  so  !"  exclaimed  De  MauMon.  "  Everything  comes  to 
him  who  knows  how  to  wait.  The  Empire  is  destroyed ;  the 
usurpation  that  follows  it  has  no  roots.  It  will  but  serve  to  ex- 
pedite the  establishment  of  such  a  constitution  as  we  have  med- 
itated and  planned — a  constitution  adapted  to  our  age  and  our 
reople,  not  based  wholly  on  untried  experiments,  taking  the 
Dest  from  nations  that  do  not  allow  Freedom  and  Order  to  be 
the  sport  of  every  popular  breeze.  From  the  American  Re- 
public we  must  borrow  the  only  safeguards  against  the  fickle- 
ness of  the  universal  suffrage  which,  though  it  was  madness  to 
concede  in  any  ancient  community,  once  conceded  cannot  be 
safely  abolished,  — viz.,  first,  the  salutary  law  that  no  article  of 
the  Constitution  once  settled  can  be  altered  without  the  consent 
of  two-thirds  of  the  legislative  body.  By  this  law  we  insure  per- 
manence, and  that  concomitant  love  for  institutions  which  is  en- 
gendered by  time  and  custom.  Secondly,  the  formation  of  a 
Senate  on  such  principles  as  may  secure  to  it  in  all  times  of  danger 
a  confidence  and  respect  which  counteract  in  public  opinion  the 
rashness  and  heat  of  the  popular  Assembly.    On  what  principles 


4^6  'TtJE  PARISIANS. 

that  Senate  should  be  fornied,  with  what  functions  invested,  what 
share  of  the  executive — especially  in  foreign  affairs,  declarations 
of  war,or  treaties  of  peace — should  be  accorded  to  it,  will  no  doubt 
need  the  most  deliberate  care  of  the  ablest  minds.  But  a 
Senate  I  thus  sketch  has  alone  rescued  America  from  the  rash- 
ness of  counsel  incident  to  a  democratic  Chamber;  av.d  it 
is  still  more  essential  to  France,  with  still  more  favorable  ele- 
ments for  its  creation.  From  England  we  must  borrow  the 
great  principle  that  has  alone  saved  her  from  revolution — that 
the  head  of  the  Senate  can  do  no  wrong.  He  leads  no  armies, 
he  presides  over  no  Cabinet.  All  responsibility  rests  with  his 
advisers  ;  and  where  we  upset  a  dynasty,  England  changes  an 
administration.  Whether  the  head  of  the  State  should  have 
the  title  of  sovereign  or  president,  whether  he  be  hereditary  or 
elected,  are  questions  of  minor  importance,  impossible  now  to 
determine  ;  but  in  which  I  heartily  concur,  with  you  that  hered- 
itary monarchy  is  infinitely  better  adapted  to  the  habits  of 
Frenchmen,  to  their  love  of  show  and  of  honors — and  infinitely 
more  preservative  from  all  the  dangers  which  result  from  con- 
stant elections  to  such  a  dignity,  with  parties  so  heated,  and 
pretenders  to  the  rank  so  numerous — than  any  principle  by 
which  a  popular  demagogue  or  a  successful  general  is  enabled  to 
destroy  the  institutions  he  is  elected  to  guard.  On  these  fun- 
damental doctrines  for  the  regeneration  of  France  I  think  we 
are  agreed.  And  I  believe,  when  the  moment  arrives  to  pro- 
mulgate them,  though  an  expounder  of  weight  like  yourself,  they 
will  rapidly  commend  themselves  to  the  intellect  of  France. 
For  they  belong  to  common  sense  ;  and  in  the  ultimate  preva- 
lence of  common  sense  1  have  a  faith  which  I  refuse  to  medie- 
valists who  restore  the  right  divine  ;  and  still  more  to  fanatical 
quacks,  who  imagine  that  the  worship  of  the  Deity,  the  ties  of 
family,  and  the  rights  of  property  are  errors  at  variance  with 
the  progress  of  society.     Qui  vivera  Terray 

Incognito. — "In  the  outlines  of  the  policy  you  so  ably 
enunciate  I  heartily  concur.  But  if  France  is,  I  will  not  say  to 
be  regenerated,  but  to  have  fair  play  among  the  nations  of 
Europe,  I  add  one  or  two  items  to  the  programme.  France 
must  be  saved  from  Paris,  not  by  subterranean  barracks  and 
trains,  the  importance  of  which  we  see  to-day  with  a  general  in 
command  of  the  military  force,  but  by  conceding  to  France  its 
proportionate  share  of  her  power  now  monopolized  by  Paris. 
All  this  system  of  centralization,  equally  tyrannical  and  corrupt, 
must  be  eradicated.  Talk  of  examples  from  America,  of  which 
I  know  little — from  England,  of  which  1  know  much, — what  can 


THE  PARISlANii. 


497 


we  more  advantageously  borrow  from  England  than  that  diffu- 
sion of  all  her  moral  and  social  power  which  forbids  the  con- 
gestion of  blood  in  one  vital  part  ?  Decentralize  !  decentralize  ! 
decentralize  !  will  be  my  incessant  cry,  if  ever  the  time  comes 
when  my  cry  will  be  heard,  France  can  never  be  a  genuine 
France  until  Paris  has  no  more  iufluences  over  the  destinies  of 
France  than  London  has  ovgr  those  of  England.  But  on  this 
theme  I  could  go  on  till  midnight.  Now  to  the  immediate  point : 
what  do  you  advise  me  to  do  in  this  crisis,  and  what  do  you 
joropose  to  do  yourself  ?" 

De  Mauldon  put  his  hand  to  his  brow,  and  remained  a  few 
moments  silent  and  thoughtful.  At  last  he  looked  up  with  that 
decided  expression  of  face  which  was  not  the  least  among  his 
many  attributes  for  influence  over  those  with  whom  he  came 
into  contact. 

"  For  you,  on  whom  so  much  of  the  future  depends,  my  ad- 
vice is  brief — have  nothing  to  do  with  the  present.  All  who 
join  this  present  mockery  of  a  government  will  share  the  fall 
that  attends  it — a  fall  from  which  one  or  two  of  their  body  may 
possibly  recover  by  casting  blame  on  their  confreres  ;  you  never 
could.  But  it  is  not  for  you  to  oppose  that  government  with  an 
enemy  on  its  march  to  Paris.  You  are  not  a  soldier ;  military 
command  is  not  in  your  role.  The  issue  of  events  is  uncertain  ; 
but,  whatever  it  be,  the  men  in  power  cannot  conduct  a  pros- 
perous war  nor  obtain  an  honorable  peace.  Hereafter  you  may 
be  the  Deus  ex  machina.  No  personage  of  that  rank  and  with 
that  mission  appears  till  the  end  of  the  play  :  we  are  only  in 
the  first  act.     Leave  Paris  at  once,  and  abstain  from  all  action." 

Incognito  (dejectedly). — "  I  cannot  deny  the  soundness  of 
your  advice,  'ihough  in  accepting  it  I  feel  unutteraby  saddened. 
Still,  you,  the  calmest  and  shrewdest  among  my  friends,  think 
there  is  cause  for  hope,  not  despair.  Victor,  I  have  more  than 
most  men  to  make  life  pleasant,  but  I  would  lay  down  life  at 
this  moment  with  you.  You  know  me  well  enough  to  be  sure 
that  I  utter  no  melodramatic  fiction  when  I  say  that  I  love  my 
country  as  a  young  man  loves  the  ideal  of  his  dreams — with  my 
whole  mind  and  heart  and  soul  !  aud  the  thought  that  I  cannot 
now  aid  her  in  the  hour  of  her  mortal  trial  is — is " 

The  man's  voice  broke  down,  and  he  turned  aside,  veiling 
his  face  with  a  hand  that  trembled. 

De  Mauleon. — "  Courage  ! — patience  !  All  Frenchman 
have  the  first ;  set  them  an  example  they  much  need  in  the 
second.  I,  too,  love  my  country,  though  I  owe  to  it  little  enough, 
Heaven  knows.     I  suppose  love  of  country  is  inherent  in  all 


498  THE  PARlt-TAN^. 

who  are  not  Intern  ationnlists.  The  ypro'^ss  an!yto  love  human- 
ity, by  which,  if  they  mean  anything  pncticpl,  they  mean  a  rise 
in  wages." 

Incognito  (rousing  himself,  and  with  a  half-j\r\le.)"  Ahvays 
cynical,  Victor — always  belying  yourself.  But  notv  that  you 
have  advised  my  course,  what  will  be  your  own  ?  Accompany 
me,  and  wait  for  better  times." 

"  No,  noble  friend  ;  our  positions  are  different.  Ycurs  is 
made — mine  yet  to  make.  But  for  this  war  I  think  I  c<)uld 
have  secured  a  seat  in  the  Chamber.  As  I  wrote  you,  I  found 
that  my  kinsfolk  were  of  much  influence  in  their  department, 
and  that  my  restitution  tc  my  social  grade,  and  the  repute  I  hac? 
made  as  an  Orleanist,  inclined  them  to  forget  my  youthfuJ 
errors  and  to  assist  my  career.  But  the  Chamber  ceases  f) 
exist.  My  journal  I  shall  drop.  I  cannot  support  the  govesn 
ment ;  it  is  not  a  moment  to  oppose  it.  My  prudent  course  is 
silence." 

Incognito. — "But  is  not  your  journal  essential  to  yobt 
support?" 

De  MauLeon. — "  Fortunately  not.  Its  profits  enabled  m« 
to  lay  by  for  the  rainy  day  that  has  come  ;  and,  having  reim- 
bursed you  and  all  friends  the  sums  necesssary  to  start  it,  J 
stand  clear  of  all  debt,  and,  for  my  slender  wants,  a  rich  man 
If  I  continued  the  journal  I  should  be  beggared  ;  for  there 
would  be  no  readers  to  '  Common  Sense '  in  this  interval  of 
lunacy.  Nevertheless,  during  this  interval  I  trust  to  other 
ways  for  winning  a  name  that  will  open  my  rightful  path  of 
ambition  whenever  we  again  have  a  legislature  in  which 
'  Common  Sense  '  can  be  heard." 

Incognito. — "  But  how  win  that  name,  silenced  as  ? 
writer } " 

De  Mauleon. — "  You  forget  that  I  have  fought  in  Algeria. 
1  n  a  few  days  Paris  will  be  in  a  state  of  siege  ;  and  then — and 
tlien,"  he  added,  and  very  quietly  dilated  on  the  renown  of  a 
patriot  or  the  grave  of  a  soldier. 

"  I  envy  you  the  chance  of  either,"  said  the  Incognito  ;  and, 
after  a  few  more  brief  words,  he  departed,  his  hat  drawn 
over  his  brows,  and,  entering  a  hired  carriage  which  he  had 
left  at  the  corner  of  the  quiet  street,  was  consigned  to  the 
Station  du ,  just  in  time  for  the  next  train. 


THE  PARISIANS.  4^^ 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Victor  diessed  and  went  out.  The  streets  were  crowded. 
Workmen  were  everywhere  employed  in  the  childish  operation 
of  removing  all  insignia  and  obliterating  all  names  that  showed 
where  an  empire  had  existed.  One  greasy  citizen,  mounted  on 
a  ladder,  was  effacing  the  words  "  Boulevard  Haussmann  "  and 
substituting  for  Haussmann  "  Victor  Hugo." 

Suddenly  De  Mauleon  came  on  a  group  of  blouses  inter- 
spersed with  women  holding  babies  and  ragged  boys  holding 
stones  collected  round  a  well-dressed  slender  man,  at  whom  they 
were  hooting  and  gesticulating  with  menaces  of  doing  something 
much  worse.  By  an  easy  effort  of  his  strong  frame  the  Vicomte 
pushed  his  way  through  the  tormentors,  and  gave  his  arm  to 
their  intended  victim. 

"  Monsieur,  allow  me  to  walk  home  with  you." 

Therewith  the  shrieks  and  shouts  and  gesticulations  in- 
creased. "  Another  impertinent !  Another  traitor  !  Drown  him  ! 
Drown  them  both  !  To  the  Seine  !  To  the  Seine  !  "  A  burly 
fellow  rushed  forward,  and  the  rest  made  a  plunging  push. 
The  outstretched  arm  of  De  Mauleon  kept  the  ringleader  at  bay. 
'  Mes  enfans"  cried  Victor,  with  a  calm  clear  voice,  "  I  am  not 
an  Imperialist.  Many  of  you  have  read  the  articles  signed 
Pierre  Firmin,  written  against  the  tyrant  Bonaparte  when  he  was 
at  the  height  of  his  power.  I  am  Pierre  Firmin — make  way  for 
me."  Probably  not  one  in  the  crowd  had  ever  read  a  word 
written  by  Pierre  Firmin,  or  even  heard  of  the  name.  But  they 
did  not  like  to  own  ignorance  ;  and  that  burly  fellow  did  not  like 
to  encounter  that  arm  of  iron  which  touched  his  throat.  So  he 
cried  out,  "  Oh  !  if  you  are  the  great  Pierre  Firmin,  that  alters 
the  case.  Make  way  for  the  patriot  Pierre  !  "  "  But,"  shiiekei 
a  virago,  thrusting  her  baby  into  De  Mauleon's  face,  "  the  other 
is  the  Imperialist,  the  capitalist,  the  vile  Duplessis.  At  least  we 
will  have  him."  De  Maule'on  suddenly  snatched  the  baby  from 
her,  and  said,  with  imperturbable  good  temper,  "  Exchange 
of  prisoners  !  I  resign  the  man  and  I  keep  the  baby." 

No  one  who  does  not  know  the  humors  of  a  Parisian  mob 
can  comprehend  the  suddenness  of  popular  change,  or  the  mag- 
ical mastery  over  crowds  which  is  effected  by  quiet  courage  and 


^oo  THE  rARISIAXS. 


a  rcadv  jo"ke.  The  group  was  appeased  at  once.  Even  the 
virago  laughed  ;  when  De  Mauleon  restored  the  infant  to  her  arms, 
with  a  gold  piece  thrust  into  its  tiny  clasp,  she  eyed  the  gold, 
and  cried,  "  God  bless  you  citizen  !  "  The  two  gentlemen  made 
their  wav  safely  now. 

"  M.'De  Maule'on,"  said  Duplessis  "  I  know  not  how  to  thank 
you.  Without  your  seasonable  aid  I  should  have  been  in  great 
danger  of  my  life  ;  and — would  you  believe  it  ? — the  woman  who 
denounced  and  set  the  mob  on  me  was  one  of  the  objects  of  a 
charity  which  I  weekly  dispense  to  the  poor," 

"  Of  course  I  believe  that.  At  the  Red  clubs  no  crime  is 
more  denounced  than  that  of  charity.  It  is  the  *  fraud  against 
Egalite '  —a  vile  trick  of  the  capitalist  to  save  to  himself  the  mill- 
ions he  ought  to  share  with  all  by  giving  a  sou  to  one.  Mean- 
while, take  my  advice,  M.  Duplessis,  and  quit  Paris  with  your 
daughter.  This  is  no  place  for  rich  Imperialists  at  present." 
"  I  perceived  that  before  to-day's  adventure.  I  distrust  the 
looks  of  my  very  servants,  and  shall  depart  with  Vale'rie  this 
evening  for  Bretagne." 

"  Ah  !  I  heard  from  Louvier  that  you  propose  to  pay  off 
his  mortgage  on  Rochebriant  and  make  yourself  sole  proprietor 
of  my  young  kinsman's  property." 

"  I  trust  you  only  believe  half  what  you  hear.  I  mean  to 
save  Rochebriant  from  Louvier,  and  consign  it,  free  of  charge, 
to  your  kinsman,  as  the  dot  of  his  bride,  my  daughter." 

"  I  rejoice  to  hear  such  good  news  for  the  head  of  my  house. 
But  Alain  himself—  is  he  not  with  the  prisoners  of  war  1  " 

"  No,  thank  Heaven.  He  went  forth  as  an  officer  of  a  regi- 
ment of  Parisian  Mobiles— went  forth  full  of  confidence;  he 
came  back  with  his  regiment  in  mournful  despondency.  The 
indiscipline  of  his  regiment,  of  the  Parisian  Mobiles  generally 
appears  incredible.  Their  insolent  disobedience  to  their  offi- 
cers, their  ribald  scoffs  at  their  general — oh,  it  is  sickening  to 
speak  of  it.  Alain  distinguished  himself  by  repressing  a  mutiny, 
and  is  honored  by  a  signal  compliment  from  the  commander  in 
a  letter  of  recommendation  to  Palikao.  But  Palikao  is  nobody 
now.  Alain  has  already  been  sent  into  Bretagne,  commissioned 
to  assist  in  organizing  a  corps  of  Mobiles  in  his  neighborhood 
Trochu,  as  you  know,  is  a  Breton.  Alain  is  confident  of  the 
good  conduct  of  the  Bretons.  What  will  Louvier  do  ?  He  is 
an  arch  Republican  :  is  he  pleased  now  he  has  got  what  he 
wanted  ?  " 

"  I  suppose    he    is    pleaseil,    for   he    is   terribly  frightened. 
"Friirht  is  one  of  llie  great  eniovments  of  a  Parisian.     Good  day 


THE  PARISIAN'S. 


SGI 


Your  path  to  your  hotel  is  clear  now.     Remember  me  kindly  to 
Alain." 

De  Mauleon  continued  his  way  through  the  streets,  some- 
times deserted,  sometimes  thronged.  At  the  commencement 
of  the  Rue  de  Florentin  he  encountered  the  brothers  Vandemar 
walking  arm  in  arm. 

"Ha,  De  Mauleon!"  cried  Enguerrand  ;  "what  is  the  last 
minute's  news  ?  " 

"  I  can't  guess.  Nobody  knows  at  Paris  how  soon  one  folly 
swallows  up  another.  Saturn  here  is  always  devouring  one  or 
other  of  his  children." 

"They  say  that  Vinoy,  after  a  masterly  retreat,  is  almost  at 
GUI  gates  with  eighty-thousand  men." 

"  And  this  day  twelvemonth  we  may  know  what  he  does 
with  them." 

Here  Raoul,  who  seemed  absorbed  in  gloomy  reflections, 
halted  before  the  hotel  in  which  the  Contessa  di  Rimini  lodged, 
and  with  a  nod  to  his  brother,  and  a  polite,  if  not  cordial,  sal- 
utation to  Victor,  entered  XS\&  porte-cochere. 

"  Your  brother  seems  out  of  spirits, — a  pleasing  contrast  to 
the  uproarious  mirth  with  which  the  Parisians  welcome  the 
advance  of  calamity." 

"  Raoul,  as  you  know,  is  deeply  religious.  He  regards  the 
defeat  we  have  sustained,  and  the  peril  that  threatens  us,  as 
the  beginning  of  a  divine  chastisement,  justly  incurred  by  oui 
sins — I  mean,  the  sins  of  Paris.  In  vain  my  father  reminds 
him  of  Voltaire's  story,  in  which  the  ship  goes  down  with  a 
fripon  on  board.  In  order  to  punish  the  fripon  the  honest 
folks  are  drowned." 

"Is  your  father  going  to  remain  on  board  the  ship  and  share 
the  fate  of  the  other  honest  folks  ?" 

"  Pas  si  bete.  He  is  off  to  Dieppe  for  sea-bathing.  He 
says  that  Paris  has  grown  so  dirty  since  the  4th  September 
that  it  is  only  fit  for  the  feet  of  the  Unwashed.  He  wished 
my  mother  to  accompany  him  ;  but  she  replies,  '  No  ;  there 
are  already  too  many  wounded  not  to  need  plenty  of  nurses.' 
She  is  assisting  to  inaugurate  a  society  of  ladies  in  aid  of  the 
Sceiirs  de  Charite.  Like  Raoul,  she  is  devout,  but  she  has  not 
his  superstitions.  Still,  his  superstitions  are  the  natural 
reaction  of  a  singularly  earnest  and  pure  nature  from  the 
frivolity  and  corruption  which,  when  kneaded  well  up  together 
with  a  slice  of  sarcasm,  Paris  calls  philosophy." 

"  And  what,  my  dear  Enguerrand,  do  you  propose  to  do  ? " 


C02  ^t^E  PARISIANS. 

"  That  depends  on  whether  we  are  really  besieged.  If  so, 
of  course  I  become  a  soldier." 

"  I  hope  not  a  National  Guard  }  " 

"  I  care  not  in  what  name  I  fight,  so  that  I  fight  for 
France." 

As  Enguerrand  said  these  simple  words,  his  whole  counte- 
nance seemed  changed.  The  crest  rose ;  the  eyes  sparkled  ; 
the  fair  and  delicate  beauty  which  made  him  the  darling 
of  women — the  joyous  sweetness  of  expression  and  dainty 
grace  of  high  breeding  which  made  him  the  most  popular 
companion  to  men, — were  exalted  in  a  masculine  nobleness 
of  aspect,  from  which  a  painter  might  have  taken  hints  for  a 
study  of  the  young  Achilles  separated  forever  from  eft'eminate 
companionship  at  the  sight  of  the  weapons  of  war.  De 
Maul^on  gazed  on  him  admiringly.  We  have  seen  that  he 
shared  the  sentiments  uttered — had  resolved  on  the  same 
course  of  action.  Eut  it  was  with  the  tempered  warmth  of  a 
man  who  seeks  to  divest  his  thoughts  and  his  purpose  of  the 
ardor  of  romance,  and  who  in  serving  his  country  calculates 
on  the  sfains  to  his  own  ambition.  Nevertheless  he  admired 
in  Enguerrand  the  image  of  his  own  impulsive  and  fiery  youth. 

"And  you,  I  presume,"  resumed  Enguerrand,  "will  fight 
too,  but  rather  with  pen  than  with  sword." 

"  Pens  will  now  be  dipped  only  in  red  ink,  and  common 
sense  never  writes  in  that  color  ;  as  for  the  sword,  I  have 
passed  tlie  age  of  forty-five,  at  which  military  service  halts. 
But  if  some  experience  in  active  service,  some  knowledge  of 
the  art  by  which  soldiers  are  disciplined  and  led,  will  be 
deemed  sufficient  title  to  a  post  of  command,  however  modest 
the  grade  be,  I  shall  not  be  wanting  among  the  defenders  o. 
Paris." 

"  My  brave  dear  Vicomte,  if  you  are  past  the  age  to  serve, 
you  are  in  the  ripest  age  to  command  ;  and  with  the  testi- 
monials and  the  cross  you  won  in  Algeria,  your  application 
for  employment  will  be  received  with  gratitude  by  any  general 
so  able  as  Trochu." 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  apply  to  Trochu.  I  would 
rather  be  elected  to  command  even  by  the  Mobiles  or  the 
National  Guard,  of  whom  I  have  just  spoken  disparagingly ; 
and  no  doubt  both  corps  will  soon  claim  and  win  the  right  to 
choose  their  officers.  Eft  if  elected,  no  matter  by  whom,  I 
shall  make  a  preliminary  condition  :  the  men  under  me  shall 
train,  and  drill,  and  obey, — soldiers  of  a  very  different  kind 
from  the  youthful  Pckins  nourished  on   absinthe  and  self  con- 


THE  PARISIANS.  2 03 

ceit,  and  applauding  that  Bombastes  Furioso,  M.  Hugo,  when 
he  assures  the  enemy  that  Paris  will  draw  an  idea  from  its 
scabbard.  But  here  comes  Savarin.  Bon-jour,  my  dear 
poet." 

"  Don't  say  good-day.  An  evil  day  for  journalists  and 
writers  who  do  not  out-Herod  Blanqui  and  Pyat.  I  know 
not  how  I  shall  get  bread  and  cheese.  My  poor  subu.  ban 
villa  is  to  be  pulled  down  by  way  of  securing  Paris ;  my 
journal  will  be  suppressed  by  way  of  establishing  the  liberty 
of  the  press.  It  ventured  to  suggest  that  the  people  of 
France  should  have  some  choice  in  the  form  of  their  govern- 
ment." 

"  That  was  veiy  indiscreet,  my  poor  Savarin,"  said  Victor ; 
"  I  wonder  your  printing-office  has  not  been  pulled  down. 
We  are  now  at  the  moment  when  wise  men  hold  their 
tongues." 

"  Perhaps  so,  M.  de  Mauleon.  It  might  have  been  wiser 
for  all  of  us,  you  as  well  as  myself,  if  we  had  not  allowed  our 
tongues  to  be  so  free  before  this  moment  arrived.  We  live  to 
learn ;  and  if  we  ever  have  what  may  be  called  a  passable 
government  again,  in  which  we  may  say  pretty  much  what 
we  like,  there  is  one  thing  I  will  not  do,  I  will  not  undermine 
that  government  without  seeing  a  very  clear  way  to  the 
government  that  is  to  follow  it.  What  say  you,  Pierre 
Firmin  ? " 

"  Frankly,  I  say  that  I  deserve  your  rebuke,"  answered  De 
Mauleon,  thoughtfully.  "  But,  of  course,  you  are  going  to 
take  or  send  Madame  Savarin  out  of  Paris  ?" 

"  Certainly.  We  have  made  a  very  pleasant  party  for  our 
hegira  this  evening — among  others  the  Morleys.  Morley  is 
terribly  disgusted.  A  Red  Republican  slapped  him  on  the 
shoulder  and  said,  '  American,  we  have  a  republic  as  well  as 
you.'  'Pretty  much  you  know  about  republics,'  growled 
Morley ;  '  a  French  republic  is  as  much  like  ours  as  a  baboon 
is  like  a  man.'  On  which  the  Red  roused  the  mob,  who 
dragged  the  American  off  to  the  nearest  station  of  the  Na- 
tional Guard,  where  he  was  accused  of  being  a  Prussian  spy. 
With  some  difficulty,  and  lots  of  brag  about  the  sanctity  of 
the  stars  and  stripes,  he  escaped  with  a  reprimand,  and  caution 
how  to  behave  himself  in  future.  So  he  quits  a  city  in  which 
there  no  longer  exists  freedom  of  speech.  My  wife  hoped  to 
induce  Madamoiselle  Cicogna  to  accompany  us ;  I  grieve  to 
say  she  refuses.  You  know  she  is  engaged  in  marriage  to 
Gustave  Rameau  =  and  his  mother  dreads  the  effect  that  these 


504 


THE  PARISIANS. 


Red  clubs  and  his  own  vanity  may  have  upon  his  excitable 
temperament  if  the  influence  of  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  be 
withdrawn." 

"How  could  a  creature  so  exquisite  as  Isaura  Cicogna  ever 
find  fascination  in  Gustave  Rameau  ? "  exclaimed  Enguer- 
rand. 

"  A  woman  like  her,"  answered  De  Maul^on,  "  always  finds 
a  fascination  in  self-sacrifice." 

"  I  think  you  divine  the  truth,"  said  Savarin,  rather  mourn- 
fully. "  But  I  must  bid  you  good-by.  May  we  live  to  shake 
hands  rcuiiis  sous  des  jneilleurs  auspices^ 

Here  Savarin  hurried  off,  and  the  other  two  men  strolled 
into  the  Champs  Elysees,  which  were  crowded  with  loungers, 
gay  and  careless,  as  if  there  had  been  no  disaster  at  Sedan,  no 
overthrow  of  an  empire,  no  enemy  on  its  road  to  Paris. 

In  fact,  the  Parisians,  at  once  the  most  incredulous  and  the 
most  credulous  of  all  populations,  believed  that  the  Prussians 
would  never  be  so  impertinent  as  to  come  in  sight  of  the  gates. 
Something  would  occur  to  stop  them  !  The  king  had  dechared 
he  did  not  war  on  Frenchman,  but  on  the  Emperor;  the  Em- 
peror gone,  the  war  was  over.  A  democratic  republic  was  in- 
stituted. A  horrible  thing  in  its  way,  it  is  true  ;  but  how  could 
the  Pandour  tyrant  brave  the  infection  of  democratic  doctrines 
among  his  own  barbarian  armies  ?  Were  not  placards,  addressed 
to  our  "German  brethren,"  posted  upon  the  walls  of  Paris,  ex- 
horting the  Pandours  to  fraternize  with  their  fellow-creatures  .-' 
Was  not  Victor  Hugo  going  to  publish  "  a  letter  to  the  German 
people  }  Had  not  Jules  Favre  graciously  offered  peace,  with 
the  assurance  that  France  would  not  cede  a  stone  of  her  for- 
tresses— an  inch  of  her  territory  ?  She  would  pardon  the  in- 
vaders, and  not  march  upon  P>erlin  !  "  To  all  these  and  many 
more  such  incontestable  proofs  that  the  idea  of  a  siege  was 
moonshine  did  Enguerrand  and  Victor  listen  as  they  joined 
group  after  group  of  their  fellow  countrymen ;  nor  did  Paris 
cease  to  harbor  such  pleasing  illusions,  amusing  itself  with 
piously  laying  crowns  at  the  foot  of  the  stutue  of  Strasbourg, 
swearing  "  they  would  be  worthy  of  their  Alsatian  brethren." 
till  on  the  igth  of  September  the  last  telegram  was  received, 
and  Paris  was  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world  by  the  iron 
line  of  the  Prussian  invaders.  "Tranquil  and  terrible,"  says 
Victor  Hugo,  "  she  awaits  the  invasion  !     A  volcano  needs  no 


assistance." 


THR  PARISTAI^, 


505 


CHAPTER  XII. 

We  left  Graham  Vane  slowly  recovering  from  the  attack  of 
fever  which  had  arrested  his  journey  to  Berlin  in  quest  of  the 
Count  von  Rudesheim.  He  was,  however,  saved  the  prosecu- 
tion of  that  journey,  and  his  direction  turned  back  to  France, 
by  a  German  newspaper  which  informed  him  that  the  King  of 
Prussia  was  at  Rheims,  and  that  the  Count  von  Rudesheim 
was  among  the  eminent  personages  gathered  there  around 
their  sovereign.  In  conversing  the  same  day  with  the  kindly 
doctor  who  attended  him,  Graham  ascertained  that  this  Ger- 
man noble  held  a  high  command  in  the  German  armies,  and 
bore  a  no  less  distinguished  reputation  as  a  wise  political 
counsellor  than  he  had  earned  as  a  military  chief.  As  soon  as 
he  was  able  to  travel,  and  indeed  before  the  good  doctor  sanc- 
tioned his  departure,  Graham  took  his  way  to  Rheims,  un- 
certain, however,  whether  the  Count  would  still  be  found  there. 
I  spare  the  details  of  his  journey,  interesting  as  they  were. 
On  reaching  the  famous,  and  in  the  eyes  of  Legitimists  the 
sacred,  city,  the  Englishman  had  no  difficulty  in  ascertaining 
the  house,  not  far  from  the  cathedral,  in  which  the  Count  von 
Rudesheim  had  taken  his  temporary  abode.  Walking  towards 
it  from  the  small  hotel  in  which  he  had  been  lucky  enough  to 
find  a  room  disengaged — slowly,  for  he  was  still  feeble — he 
was  struck  by  the  quiet  conduct  of  the  German  soldiery,  and, 
save  in  their  appearance,  the  peaceful  aspect  of  the  streets. 
Indeed,  there  was  an  air  of  festive  gayety  about  the  place,  as 
in  an  English  town  in  which  some  popular  regiment  is  quar- 
tered. The  German  soldiers  thronged  the  shops,  buying 
largely ;  lounged  into  the  cafes ;  here  and  there  attempted 
Hi rtations  with  the  ^m^/Z^x,  who  laughed  at  their  French  and 
blushed  at  their  compliments  ;  and  in  their  good-humored, 
somewhat  bashful  cheeriness  there  was  no  trace  of  the  inso- 
lence of  conquest. 

But  as  Graham  neared  the  precincts  of  the  cathedral  his 
ear  caught  a  grave  and  solemn  music,  which  he  at  first  sup- 
posed to  come  from  within  the  building.  But  as  he  paused 
and  looked  round  he  saw  a  group  of  the  German  military,  on 
whose  stalwart  forms  and  fair  manly  earnest  faces  the   setting 


5o6 


THE  PAKISfANS. 


sun  cast  its  calm  lingering  rays.  They  were  chanting,  in 
voices  not  loud  but  deep,  Luther's  majestic  hx-mn,  "  Nun 
dankct  alle  Gott.''  The  chant  awed  even  the  raso:ed  bes-srar- 
boys  who  had  followed  the  Englishman,  as  they  followed  any 
stranger,  would  have  followed  King  William  himself,  whining 
for  alms.  "  What  a  type  of  the  difference  between  the  two 
nations  !  "  thought  Graham  ;  "  The  marseillaise,  and  Luther's 
Hymn  '  "  While  thus  meditating  and  listening,  a  man  in  a 
general's  uniform  came  slowly  out  of  the  cathedral,  with  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  and  his  head  bent  slightly 
downwards.  He,  too,  paused  on  hearing  the  hymn,  then  un- 
clasped his  hands  and  beckoned  to  one  of  the  officers  to  whom 
approaching  he  whispered  a  word  or  two,  and  passed  on  to- 
wards the  episcopal  palace.  The  hymn  hushed,  and  the 
singers  quietly  dispersed.  Graham  divined  rightly  that  the 
general  had  thought  a  hymn  thanking  the  God  of  battles 
might  wound  the  feelings  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  vanquished 
city — not,  however,  that  any  of  them  were  likely  to  understand 
the  language  in  which  the  thanks  were  uttered.  Graham  fol- 
lowed the  measured  steps  of  the  general,  whose  hands  were 
again  clasped  behind  his  back — the  musing  habit  of  Von 
Moltke,  as  it  had  been  of  Napoleon  the  First. 

Continuing  his  way,  the  Englishman  soon  reached  the 
house  in  which  the  Count  von  Rudesheim  was  lodged,  and, 
sending  in  his  card,  was  admitted  at  once,  though  an  ante- 
room in  which  sat  two  young  men,  subaltern  officers,  appar- 
ently employed  in  draughting  maps,  into  the  presence  of  the 
Count. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Graham,  after  the  first  conventional 
salutation,  "  if  I  interrupt  you  for  a  moment  or  so  in  the  midst 
of  events  so  grave,  on  a  matter  that  must  seem  to  you  very 
trivial." 

"  Nay,"  answered  the  Count,  "  there  is  nothing  so  trivial 
in  this  world  but  what  there  will  be  some  one  to  whom  it  is 
important.     Say  how  I  can  serve  you." 

"  I  think,  M,  le  Comte,  that  you  once  received  in  your 
household,  as  teacher  or  governess,  a  French  lady,  Madame 
Marigny  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  remember  her  well — a  very  handsome  woman. 
My  wife  and  daughter  took  great  interest  in  her.  She  wai 
married  out  of  my  house." 

"  Exactly — and  to  whom  ? " 

"  An  Italian  of  good  birth,  who  was  then  employed  by  the 
Austrian  government    in  some    minor  post,   and  subsequently 


THE  FARTSIANS. 


507 


promoted  to  a  better  one  in  the  Italian  dominion,  which  then 
belonged  to  the  house  of  Hapsburg,  after  which  we  lost  sight 
of  him  and  his  wife." 

"  An  Italian — what  was  his  name  ?  " 

"  Ludovico  Cicogna." 

"  Cicogna  !  "  exclaimed  Graham,  turning  very  pale.  "  Are 
you  sure  that  was  the  name  ?  " 

"  C'ertainly,  He  was  a  cadet  of  a  very  noble  hou^e,  and 
disowned  by  relations  too  patriotic  to  forgive  him  for  accept- 
ing employment  under  the  Austrian  government." 

"  Can  you  not  give  me  the  address  of  the  place  in  Italy  to 
which  he  was  transferred  on  leaving  Austria  .''  " 

"  No ;  but  if  the  information  be  necessary  to  you,  it  can  be 
obtained  easily  at  Milan,  where  the  head  of  the  family  resides, 
or  indeed  in  Vienna,  through  any  ministerial  bureau." 

"  Pardon  me  one  or  two  questions  more.  Had  Madame 
Marigny  any  children  by  a  former  husband  .^  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of ;  I  never  heard  so.  Signor  Cicogna 
was  a  widower,  and  had,  if  I  remember  right,  children  by  his 
first  wife,  who  was  also  a  Frenchwoman.  Before  he  obtained 
office  in  Austria,  he  resided,  I  believe,  in  France.  I  do  not 
remember  how  many  children  he  had  by  his  first  wife.  I 
never  saw  them.  Our  acquaintance  began  at  the  baths  of 
Toplitz,  where  he  saw  and  fell  violently  in  love  with  Madame 
Marigny.  After  their  marriage  they  went  to  his  post,  which  was 
somewhere,  I  tllink,  in  the  Tyrol.  We  saw  no  more  of  them ; 
but  my  wife  and  daughter  kept  up  a  correspondence  with  the 
Signora  Cicogna  for  a  short  time.  It  ceased  altogether  when 
she  removed  into  Italy." 

"  You  do  not  even  know  if  the  Signora  is  still  living  ? " 

"No." 

"  Her  husband,  I  am  told,  is  dead." 

"  Indeed  !  I  am  concerned  to  hear  it.  A  good-looking, 
lively,  clever  man.  I  fear  he  must  have  lost  all  income  when 
the  Austrian  dominions  passed  to  the  house  of  Savoy." 

"  Many  thanks  for  your  information.  I  can  detain  you  no 
longer,"  said  Graham,  rising. 

"  Nay,  I  am  not  very  busy  at  this  moment ;  but  I  fear  we 
Germans  have  plenty  of  work  on  our  hands." 

"  I  had  hoped  that,  now  the  French  Emperor,  against  whom 
your  king  made  war,  was  set  aside,  his  Prussian  majesty  would 
make  peace  with  the  French  people." 

"  Most  willingly  wou-ld  he  do  so  if  the  French  people  would 
let  him.     But  it  must  be  through  a  French  government  legally 


5o8  THE  PARISIANS. 

chosen  by  the  people.  And  they  have  chosen  none  !  A  mob 
at  Paris  sets  up  a  provisional  administration,  that  commences 
by  declaring  that  it  will  not  give  up  '  an  inch  of  its  territory 
nor  a  stone  of  its  fortresses.'  No  terms  of  peace  can  be  made 
with  such  men  holding  such  talk."  After  a  few  words  more 
over  the  state  of  public  affairs, — in  which  Graham  expressed 
tlie  English  side  of  affairs,  which  was  all  for  generosity  to  the 
vanquished,  and  the  Count  argued  much  more  ably  on  the 
German,  which  was  all  for  security  against  the  aggressions  of  a 
people  that  would  not  admit  itself  to  be  vanquished, — the  short 
interview  closed. 

As  Graham  at  night  pursued  his  journey  to  Vienna,  there 
came  into  his  mind  Isaura's  song  of  the  Neapolitan  fisherman. 
Had  he,  too,  been  blind  to  the  image  on  the  rock  .''  Was  it 
possible  that,  all  the  while  he  had  been  resisting  the  impulse 
of  his  heart  until  the  discharge  of  the  mission  intrusted  to  him 
freed  his  choice  and  decided  his  fortunes,  the  very  person  of 
whom  he  was  in  search  had  been  before  him,  then  to  be  forever 
won,  lost  to  him  now  forever  "i  Could  Isaura  Cicogna  be  the 
child  of  Louise  Duval  by  Richard  King  t  She  could  not  have 
been  her  child  by  Cicogna  :  the  dates  forbade  that  hypothesis. 
Isaura  must  have  been  five  years  old  when  Louise  married  the 
Italian. 

Arrived  at  Milan,  Graham  quickly  ascertained  that  the  post 
to  which  Ludovico  Cicogna  had  been  removed  was  in  Verona, 
and  that  he  had  there  died  eight  years  ago.  Nothing  was  to  be 
learned  as  to  his  family  or  his  circumstances  at  the  time  of  his 
death.  The  people  of  whose  history  we  know  the  least  are  the 
relations  we  refuse  to  acknowledge.  Graham  continued  his 
journey  to  Verona.  There  he  found,  on  inquiry,  that  the 
Cicognas  had  occupied  an  apartment  in  a  house  which  stood  at 
the  outskirts  of  the  town  and  had  been  since  pulled  down  to 
make  way  for  some  public  improvements.  But  his  closest  in- 
quiries could  gain  him  no  satisfactory  answers  to  the  all-impor- 
tant questions  as  to  Ludovico  Cicogna's  family.  His  political 
alienation  from  the  Italian  cause,  which  was  nowhere  more 
aulently  espoused  than  at  Verona,  had  rendered  him  ver}^  un- 
popular. He  visited  at  no  Italian  houses.  Such  society  as  he 
had  was  confined  to  the  Austrian  military  within  the  Quadrilat- 
era.  or  at  Venice,  to  which  city  he  made  frequent  excursions  ; 
was  said  to  lead  there  a  free  and  gay  life,  very  displeasing  to 
the  Signora,  whom  he  left  in  Verona.  She  was  but  little  seen, 
and  faintly  remembered  as  very  handsome  and  proud-looking. 
Yes,   there    were    children — a  girl,   and    a   bov   several   years 


THE  PARISIANS. 


509 


younger  than  the  girl ;  but  whether  she  was  the  child  of  the 
Signora  by  a  former  marriage,  or  whether  the  Signo^a  was  only 
the  child's  stepmother,  no  one  could  say.  The  usual  clue  in 
such  doubtful  matters,  obtainable  through  servants,  was  here 
missing.  The  Cicognas  had  kept  only  two  servants,  and  both 
were  Austrian  subjects,  who  had  long  left  the  country, — their 
very  names  forgotten. 

Graham  now  called  to  mind  the  Englishman  Selby,  for 
whom  Isaura  had  such  grateful  affection,  as  supplying  to  her 
the  place  of  her  father.  This  must  have  been  the  English- 
man whom  Louise  Duval  had  married  after  Cicogna's  death. 
It  would  be  no  difficult  task,  surely,  to  ascertain  where  he 
had  residexrl.  Easy  enough  to  ascertain  all  that  Graham 
wanted  to  know  from  Isaura  herself,  if  a  letter  could  reach 
her.  But,  As  he  knew  by  the  journals,  Paris  was  now  in- 
vested— cut  off  from  all  communication  with  the  world  be- 
yond. Too  irritable,  anxious,  and  impatient  to  wait  for  the 
close  of  the  siege,  though  he  never  suspected  it  could  Last  so 
long  as  it  did,  he  hastened  to  Venice,  and  there  learned 
through  the  British  consul  that  the  late  Mr.  Selby  was  a 
learned  antiquarian,  an  accomplished  general  scholar,  A.fanatico 
in  music,  a  man  of  gentle  temper  though  reserved  manners  ; 
had  at  one  time  lived  much  at  Venice  :  after  his  marriage  with 
the  Signora  Cicogna,  he  had  taken  up  his  abode  near  Florence. 
To  Florence  Graham  now  went.  He  found  the  villa  on  the 
skirts  of  Fiesole  at  which  Mr.  Selby  had  resided.  The  peasant 
who  had  officiated  as  gardener  and  shareholder  in  the  profits 
of  vines  and  figs  was  still,  with  his  wife,  living  on  the  place. 
Both  man  and  wife  remembered  the  Inglese  well  ;  spoke  of  him 
with  great  affection,  of  his  wife  with  great  dislike.  I'hey  said 
her  manners  were  very  haughty,  her  temper  very  violent ;  that 
she  led  the  Ingkse  a  very  unhappy  life  ;  that  there  were  a  girl 
and  a  boy,  both  hers  by  a  former  marriage  ;  but  when  closely 
questioned  whether  they  were  sure  that  the  girl  was  the  Sig- 
nora's  child  by  the  former  husband,  or  whether  she  was  not  the 
child  of  that  husband  by  a  former  wife,  they  could  not  tell  ; 
they  could  only  say  that  both  were  called  by  the  same  name — 
Cicogna  ;  that  the  boy  was  the  Signora's  favorite — that  indeed 
she  seemed  wrapt  up  in  him ;  that  he  died  of  a  rapid  decline  a 
few  months  after  Mr.  Selby  had  hired  the  place,  and  that  short- 
ly after  his  death  the  Signora  left  the  place  and  never  returned 
to  it ;  that  it  was  a  little  more  than  a  year  that  she  had  lived 
with  her  husband  before  this  final  separation  took  place.  The 
girl  remained  with  Mr.  Selby,  who  cherished  and  loved  her  as 


5 1  o  THE  PARISIANS.  \ 

his  own  child.  Her  Christian  name  was  Isaura,  tTie  boy's 
Luigi.  A  few  years  later,  Mr.  Selby  left  the  villa,  and  went  to 
Naples,  where  they  heard  he  had  died.  They  could  give  no  in- 
formation as  to  what  had  become  of  his  wife.  Since  the  death 
of  her  boy  that  lady  had  become  very  much  changed — her  spir- 
its quite  broken,  no  longer  violent.  She  would  sit  alone  and 
weep  bitterly.  The  only  person  out  of  her  family  she  would 
receive  was  the  priest ;  till  the  boy's  death  she  had  never  seen 
the  priest,  nor  been  known  to  attend  divine  service. 

*'  Was  the  priest  living  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  ;  he  had  been  dead  two  years.  A  most  excellent 
man — a  saint,"  said  the  peasant's  wife. 

"Good  priests  are  like  good  women,'''  said  the  peasant,  dry- 
ly ;  "  there  are  plenty  of  them,  but  they  are  all  under  ground." 

On  which  remark  the  wife  tried  to  box  his  ears.  The  con- 
tadifio  had  become  a  free-thinker  since  the  accession  of  the 
house  of  Savoy.     His  wife  remained  a  good  Catholic. 

Said  the  peasant  as,  escaping  from  his  wife,  he  walked  into 
the  high-road  with  Graham,  "  My  belief,  Ecctiienza,  is  that  the 
priest  did  all  the  mischief." 

"  What  mischief .?  " 

"  Persuaded  the  Signora  to  leave  her  husband.  The  /«• 
glese  was  not  a  Catholic.  I  heard  the  priest  call  him  a  heretic. 
And  the  Padre,  who,  though  not  so  bad  as  some  of  his  cloth, 
was  a  meddling  bigot,  thought  it  perhaps  best  for  her  soul  that 
it  should  part  company  with  a  heretic's  person.  I  can't  say 
for  sure,  but  I  think  that  was  it.  The  Padre  seemed  to  tri- 
um]ih  when  the  Signora  was  gone." 

Graham  mused.  The  peasant's  supposition  was  not  im- 
probable. A  woman  such  as  Louise  Duval  appeared  to  be — 
of  vehement  passions  and  ill-regulated  mind — was  just  one  ot 
those  who,  in  a  moment  of  great  sorrow  and  estranged  from  the 
ordinary  household  affections,  feel,  though  but  imperfectly,  the 
necessity  of  a  religion,  and,  ever  in  extremes,  pass  at  once 
from  indifferentism  into  superstition. 

Arrived  at  Naples,  Graham  heard  little  of  Selby  except  as 
a  literary  recluse,  whose  only  distraction  from  books  was  the 
operatic  stage.  But  he  heard  much  of  Isaura  ;  of  the  kindness 
which  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  had  shown  to  her  when  left  hy 
Selby's  death  alone  in  the  world  ;  of  the  interest  which  the 
friendship  and  the  warm  eulogies  of  one  so  eminent  as  the  great 
French  writer  had  created  for  Isaura  in  the  artistic  circles  ;  of 
the  intense  sensation  her  appearance,  her  voice,  her  universal 
genius,  had  made  in  that  society,  and  the  brilliant  hopes  of  her 


THE  PARTSTANS. 


5" 


subsequent  career  on  the  stage  the  cognoscenti  had  formed  No 
one  knew  an3'thing  of  her  mother  ;  no  one  entertained  a  doubt 
that  Isaura  was  by  birth  a  Cicogna,  Graham  could  not  learn 
the  present  whereabouts  of  Madame  de  Grantmesnil.  She  had 
long  left  Naples,  and  had  been  last  heard  of  at  Genoa  ;  was 
supposed  to  have  returned  to  France  a  little  before  the  war. 
In  France  she  had  no  fixed  residence. 

The  simplest  mode  of  obtaining  authentic  information 
whetner  Isaura  was  the  daughter  of  Ludovico  Cicogna  by  his 
first  wife — namely,  by  registration  of  her  birth — failed  him  ; 
because,  as  Von  Rudesheim  had  said,  his  first  wife  was  a 
Frenchwoman.  The  children  had  been  born  somewhere  in 
France,  no  one  could  even  guess  where.  No  one  had  ever 
seen  the  first  wife,  who  had  never  appeared  in  Italy,  nor  had 
even  heard  what  was  her  maiden  name. 

Graham,  meanwhile,  was  not  aware  that  Isaura  was  still  in 
the  besieged  city,  whether  or  not  already  married  to  Gustave 
Rameau  ;  so  large  a  number  of  the  women  had  quitted  Paris 
before  the  siege  began,  that  he  had  reason  to  hope  she  was 
among  them.  He  had  heard  through  an  American  that  the 
Morleys  had  gone  to  England  before  the  Prussian  investment ; 
perhaps  Isaura  had  gone  with  them.  He  wrote  to  Mrs.  Mor- 
ley,  inclosing  his  letter  to  the  Minister  of  the  United  States  at 
the  Court  of  St.  James,  and  while  still  at  Naples  received  an 
answer.  It  was  short,  and  malignantly  bitter.  "  Both  myself 
and  Madame  Savarin,  backed  by  Signora  Venosta,  earnestly 
entreated  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  to  quit  Paris,  to  accompany 
us  to  England.  Her  devotion  to  her  affianced  husband  would 
not  permit  her  to  listen  to  us.  It  is  only  an  Englishman  who 
could  suppose  Isaura  Cicogna  to  be  one  of  those  women  who 
do  not  insist  on  sharing  the  perils  of  those  they  love.  You  ask 
whether  she  was  the  daughter  of  Ludovico  Cicogna  by  his  for- 
mer marriage,  or  of  his  second  wife  by  him.  I  cannot  answer. 
I  don't  even  know  whether  iSignor  Cicogna  ever  had  a  former 
wife.  Isaura  Cicogna  never  spoke  to  me  of  her  parents.  Per- 
mit me  to  ask,  what  business  is  it  of  yours  now  ?  Is  it  the  Eng- 
lish pride  that  makes  you  wish  to  learn  whether  on  both  sides 
she  is  of  noble  family  ?  How  can  that  discovery  alter  your  re- 
lations towards  the  affianced  bride  of  another  ?  " 

On  receipt  of  this  letter  Graham  quitted  Naples,  and  short- 
ly afterwards  found  himself  at  Versailles.  He  obtained  per- 
mission to  establish  himself  there,  though  the  English  were  by 
no  means  popular.  Thus  near  to  Isaura,  thus  sternly  separated 
from  her,  Graham  awaited  the  close  of  the  siege.     Few  among 


5^2 


THE  PARISIANS. 


tliose  at  Versailles  believed  that  the  Parisians  would  endure  it 
much  longer.  Surely  they  would  capitulate  before  the  bom- 
bardment, which  the  Germans  themselves  disliked  to  contem- 
plate as  a  last  resource,  could  commence. 

In  his  own  mind  Graham  was  convinced  that  Isaura  was 
the  child  of  Richard  King.  It  seemed  to  him  probable  that 
Louise  Duval,  unable  to  assign  any  real  name  to  the  daughter 
of  the  marriage  she  disowned, — neither  the  name  borne  by 
the  repudiated  husband,  nor  her  own  maiden  name, — would, 
on  taking  her  daughter  to  her  new  home,  have  induced  Cicogna 
to  give  the  child  his  name ;  or  that  after  Cicogna's  death  shf 
herself  had  so  designated  the  girl.  A  dispassionate  confidant, 
could  Graham  have  admitted  any  confidant  wliatever,  might 
have  suggested  the  more  than  equal  probability  that  Isaura  was 
Cicogna's  daughter  by  his  former  espousal.  But  then  what 
could  have  become  of  Richard  King's  child  ?  To  part  with 
the  fortune  in  his  hands,  to  relinquish  all  the  ambitious  dreams 
which  belonged  to  it,  cost  Graham  Vane  no  pang ;  but  he 
writhed  with  indignant  grief  when  he  thought  that  the  wealth 
of  Richard  King's  heiress  was  to  pass  to  the  hands  of  Gustave 
Rameau — that  this  was  to  be  the  end  of  his  researches — this 
the  result  of  the  sacrifice  his  sense  of  honor  imposed  on  him. 
And  now  that  there  was  the  probability  that  he  must  convey 
to  Isaura  this  large  inheritance,  the  practical  difficulty  of  in- 
venting some  reason  for  such  a  donation,  which  he  had,  while 
at  a  distance,  made  light  of,  became  seriously  apparent.  How 
could  he  say  to  Isaura  that  he  had  ^{^200,000  in  trust  for  her, 
without  naming  any  one  so  devising  it  ?  Still  more,  how  consti- 
tute himself  her  guardian,  so  as  to  secure  it  to  herself,  inde- 
pendently of  her  husband  ?  Perhaps  Isaura  was  too  infatuated 
with  Rameau,  or  too  romantically  unselfish,  to  permit  the  for- 
tune so  mysteriously  conveyed  being  exclusively  appropriated 
to  lv;rself.  And  if  she  were  already  married  to  Rameau,  and 
if  he  were  armed  with  the  right  to  inquire  into  the  source  of 
this  fortune,  how  exposed  to  the  risks  of  disclosure  would  be- 
come the  secret  Graham  sought  to  conceal !  Such  a  secret. 
atTecting  the  memory  of  the  sacred  dead,  affixing  a  shame  on 
the  scutcheon  of  the  living,  in  the  irreverent  hands  of  a  Gustave 
Ramedu, — it  was  too  dreadful  to  contemplate  such  a  hazard. 
And  yet,  if  Isaura  were  the  missing  heiress,  could  Graham 
Vane  admit  any  excuse  for  basely  withholding  from  her,  for 
coolly  retaining  to  himself,  the  wealth  for  which  he  was  respon- 
sible ?  Yet,  torturing  as  were  these  communings  with  himself, 
they  were  mild  in    their  toi  ture  compared   to   the  ever-growing 


TflE  PARISIANS. 


5^3 


anguish  of  the  thought  that  in  any  case  the  only  woman  he 
had  ever  loved — ever  could  love, — who  might  but  for  his  own 
scruples  and  prejudices  have  been  the  partner  of  his  life, — was 
perhaps  now  actually  the  wife  of  another ;  and,  as  such,  !n 
what  terrible  danger  !  Famine  within  the  walls  of  the  doomed 
cit}' ;  without,  the  engines  of  death  waiting  for  a  signal.  So 
near  to  her,  and  yet  so  far !  So  willing  to  die  for  her,  if  for 
her  he  could  not  live  ;  and,  with  all  his  devotion,  all  his  intel- 
lect, all  his  wealth,  so  powerless  ! 


CHAPTER  Xlir. 


Tt  is  now  the  middle  of  November — a  Sunday.  The  day 
has  been  mild,  and  is  drawing  towards  its  close.  The  Parisians 
have  been  enjoying  the  sunshine.  Under  the  leafless  trees  in 
the  public  gardens  and  the  Champs  Elysees  children  have 
been  at  play.  On  the  Boulevards  the  old  elegance  of  gayety 
is  succeeded  by  a  livelier  animation.  Itinerant  musicians 
gather  round  them  ragged  groups.  Fortune-tellers  are  in 
great  request,  especially  among  the  once  brilliant  Laises  and 
Thaises,  now  looking  more  shabby,  to  whom  they  predict  the 
speedy  restoration  of  nabobs  and  Russians  and  golden  joys. 
Yonder  Punch  is  achieving  a  victory  over  the  Evil  One,  who 
wears  the  Prussian  spiked  helmet  and  whose  face  has  been 
recently  beautified  into  a  resemblance  to  Bismarck.  Punch 
draws  to  his  show  a  laughing  audience  of  Moblots  and  recruits 
to  the  new  companies  of  the  National  Guard.  Members  of 
the  once  formidable  police,  now  threadbare  and  hungerpinched, 
stand  side  by  side  with  unfortunate  beggars  and  sinister-looking 
patriots  who  have  served  their  time  in  the  jails  or  galleys. 

Uniforms  of  all  variety  are  conspicuous — the  only  evidence; 
visible  of  an  enemy  at  the  walls.  But  the  aspects  of  the 
wearers  of  warlike  accoutrements  are  debonnaire  and  smiling, 
as  of  revellers  on  a  holiday  of  peace.  Among  these  defenders 
of  their  country,  at  the  door  of  a  crowded  cafe,  stands  Frederic 
Lemercier,  superb  in  the  costume,  bran-new,  of  a  National 
Guard, —  his  dog  Fox  tranquilly  reposing  on  its  haunches, 
with  eyes  fixed  upon  its  fellow-dog  philosophically  musing  on 
the  edge  of  Punch's  show,  whose  master  is  engaged  in  the  con- 
quest of  the  Bismarck  fiend. 


.  J  ,  THE  PARISIANS. 

"  Lemercier,"  cried  the  Vicomte  de  Breze,  approaching  the 
cafe,  "I  scarcely  recognize  you  in  that  martial  guise.  You  look 
magiiifiqiie — the  galms  became  you.  Pcste !  an  officer  al- 
ready ? " 

"  The  National  Guards  and  Mobiles  are  permitted  to  choose 
their  own  officers,  as  you  are  aware.  I  have  been  elected,  but 
to  subaltern  grade,  by  the  warlike  patriots  of  my  department 
Enguerrand  de  Vandemar  is  elected  a  captain  of  the  Mobiles 
in  his,  and  Victor  de  Mauleon  is  appointed  to  the  command  of 
a  battalion  of  the  National  Guards.  But  I  soar  above  jealousy 
at  such  a  moment ; 

'  Rome  a  choisi  mon  bras  ;  je  n'examine  rien.'  " 

"You  have  no  right  to  be  jealous.  De  Maule'on  has  had 
experience  and  won  distinction  in  actual  service,  and,  from  all 
1  hear,  is  doing  wonders  with  his  men — has  got  them  not  only 
(o  keep  but  to  love  drill.     I  heard  no  less  an  authority  than 

General  V say   that    if   all    the    officers   of   the    National 

Guard  were  like  De  Mauleon,  that  body  would  give  an  example 
of  discipline  to  the  line." 

"I  say  nothing  as  to  the  promotion  of  a  real  soldier  like 
the  Vicomte — but  a  Parisian  dandy  like  Enguerrand  de 
Vandemar ! " 

"You  forget  that  Enguerrand  received  a  military  educa- 
tion—  an  advantage  denied  to  you." 

"What  does  that  matter  .?  Who  cares  for  education  nowa- 
days ?  Besides,  have  I  not  been  training  ever  since  the  4th  of 
September,  to  say  nothing  of  the  hard  work  on  the  ramparts  ?" 

'■'■  Parlez-moi de  ccla  :  it  is  indeed  hard  work  on  the  ramparts. 
Infandum  dolorem  quorum  pars  magua  fui.  Take  the  day  duty. 
What  with  rising  at  seven  o'clock,  and  being  drilled  between  a 
middle-aged  and  coquilent  grocer  on  one  side  and  a  meagre 
beardless  barber's  apprentice  on  the  other  ;  what  with  going  to 
the  bastions  at  eleven,  and  seeing  half  one's  companions  drunk 
before  twelve  ;  what  with  trying  to  keep  their  fists  off  one's 
face  when  one  politely  asks  them  not  to  call  one's  general_  a 
traitor  or  a  poltroon, — the  work  of  the  ramparts  would  be  in- 
supportable, if  I  did  not  take  a  pack  of  cards  with  me  and  en- 
joy a  quiet  rubber  with  three  other  heroes  in  some  sequestered 
corner.  As  for  night  work,  nothing  short  of  the  indomitable 
fortitude  of  a  Parisian  could  sustain  it ;  the  tents  made  ex- 
pressly not  to  be  waterproof,  like  the  groves  of  the  Muses, — 

'  per 
Quos  et  aquae  subeant  et  aurae.' 


THE  FARISIAXS.  r  i  ; 

A  fellow-companion  of  mine  tucks  himself  up  in  my  rug  and 
pillows  his  head  on  my  knapsack.  I  remonstrate — he  swears  ; 
the  other  heroes  wake  up  and  threaten  to  thrash  us  both  ;  and 
just  when  peace  is  made,  and  one  hopes  for  a  wink  of  sleep,  a 
detachment  of  spectators,  cXvi^^iy  gamins,  coming  to  see  that  all 
is  safe  in  the  camp,  strike  up  the  Marseillaise.  Ah,  the  work! 
will  ring  to  the  end  of  time  with  the  sublime  attitude  of  Paris 
in  the  face  of  the  Vandal  invaders,  especially  when  it  learns 
that  the  very  shoes  we  stand  in  are  made  of  cardboard.  In 
vain  we  complain.  The  contractor  for  shoes  is  a  stanch  re- 
publican, and  jobs  by  rights  divine.  May  I  ask  if  you  have 
dined  yet  ?  " 

•'  Heavens  !  no  ;  it  is  too  early.  But  I  am  excessively  hun- 
gry. I  had  only  a  quarter  of  jugged  cat  for  breakfast,  and  the 
brute  was  tough.  In  reply  to  your  question,  may  I  put  an- 
other— Did  you  lay  in  plenty  of  stores  ?  " 

"  Stores  .''  no  ;  I  am  a  bachelor,  and  rely  on  the  stores  of 
my  married  friends." 

"  Poor  De  Breze  !  I  sympathize  with  you,  for  I  am  in  the 
same  boat,  and  dinner-invitations  have  become  monstrous 
rare." 

''  Oh,  but  you  are  so  confoundedly  rich  !  What  to  you  are 
forty  francs  for  a  rabbit,  or  eighty  francs  for  a  turkey  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  am  rich,  but  I  have  no  money,  and  the 
nngrateful  restaurants  will  not  give  me  credit.  They  don't  be- 
lieve in  better  days." 

"  How  C2lXs.  you  want  money  ?  " 

"  Very  naturally.  I  had  invested  my  capital  famously — the 
best  speculations — partly  in  house-rents,  partly  in  company 
shares  ;  and  houses  pay  no  rents,  and  nobody  will  buy  com- 
pany shares.  I  had  one  thousand  napoleons  on  hand,  it  is 
true,  when  Duplessis  left  Paris — much  more,  I  thought,  than  I 
could  possibly  need,  for  I  never  believed  in  the  siege.  But 
during  the  first  weeks  I  played  at  whist  with  bad  luck,  and 
since  then  so  many  old  friends  have  borrowed  of  me  that  I 
doubt  if  I  have  two  hundred  francs  left.  I  have  despatched  four 
letters  to  Duplessis  by  pigeon  and  balloon,entreating  him  to  send 
me  twenty-five  thousand  francs  by  some  trusty  fellow  who  aHI 
pierce  the  Prussian  lines.  I  have  had  two  answers — ist,  that 
lie  will  find  a  man ;  2d,  that  the  man  is  found  and  on  his  way. 
Trust  to  that  man,  my  dear  friend,  and  meanwhile  lend  me  two 
hundred  francs." 

"  Mon  cher  desole  to  refuse ;  but  I  was  about  to  ask  you  to 
share  your  two  hundred  francs  with  me,  who  live  chiefly  by  iny 


^i6  THE  PARISIANS. 

pen  ;  and  that  resource  is  cut  off.     Still,  ilfautvivre — one  must 
dine." 

"That  is  a  fact,  and  we  will  dine  together  to-day  at  my  ex 
pense  ;  limited  liability,  though — eight  francs  a  head." 

"Generous  Monsieur,  I  accept.  Meanwhile,  let  us  take  a 
turn  towards  the  Madeleine." 

The  two  Parisians  quit  the  cafe,  and  proceed  up  the  Boule- 
vard. On  their  way  they  encounter  Savarin.  "  Why,"  said 
De  Br^zd,  "  I  thought  you  had  left  Paris  with  Madame." 

"  So  1  did,  and  deposited  her  safely  with  the  Morleys  at 
Boulogne.  Those  kind  Americans  were  going  to  England 
and  they  took  her  with  them.  But  /  quit  Paris  !  I  !  No  !  1 
am  old ;  I  am  growing  obese ;  I  have  always  been  short- 
sighted ;  I  can  neither  wield  a  sword  nor  handle  a  musket. 
But  Paris  needs  defenders  ;  and  every  moment  I  was  away 
from  her  I  sighed  to  myself,  ^  II  faut  etre  la  I'  I  returned  be- 
fore the  Vandals  had  possessed  themselves  of  our  railways,  the 
cotivoi  overcrowded  with  men  like  myself,  who  had  removed 
wives  and  families  ;  and  when  we  asked  each  other  why  we 
went  back,  ever)'  answer  was  the  same,  '  //  faut  etre  la.'  No, 
poor  child,  no — I  have  nothing  to  give  you." 

These  last  words  were  addressed  to  a  woman  young  and 
handsome,  with  a  dress  that  a  few  weeks  ago  might  have  been 
admired  for  taste  and  elegance  by  the  lady  leaders  of  the  ton, 
but  was  now  darned,  and  dirty,  and  draggled. 

"  Monsieur,  I  did  not  stop  you  to  ask  for  alms.  You  do 
not  seem  to  remember  me,  M.  Savarin." 

"But  I  do,"  said  Lemercier;  "surely  I  address  Mademoi- 
selle Julie  Caumartin." 

"  Ah,  excuse  me,  le petit  Frederic,"  said  Julie,  with  a  sickly 
attempt  at  coquettish  sprightliness  :  "  I  had  no  eyes  except  for 
M.  Savarin." 

"  And  why  only  for  me,  my  poor  child  ?  "  asked  the  kind- 
hearted  author. 

"  Hush  !  "     She  drew  him  aside.     "  Because  you  can  give  ■ 
me  news  of  that  monster  Gustave.     It  is  not  true,  it  cannot  be 
true,  that  he  is  going  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  Nay,  surely.  Mademoiselle,  all  connection  between  you 
ana  young  Rameau  has  ceased  for  months — ceased  from  the 
date  of  that  illness  in  July  which  nearly  carried  him  off." 

"  I  resigned  him  to  the  care  of  his  mother,"  said  the  girl ; 
"  but  when  he  no  longer  needs  a  mother  he  belongs  to  me.  Oh, 
consider,  M.  Savarin,  for  his  sake  I  refused  the  most  splendid 
offers  1     Wlv^n  he  sought  \m\  I  had   my  co!//>r,   my  opera-box 


TIJE  PARIS fANS. 


5'7 


my  cac/iemtres,  my  jewels.  The  Russians — the  Knglish— vied 
tor  my  smiles.  But  I  loved  the  man.  I  never  loved  before  :  I 
shall  never  love  again ;  and  after  the  sacrifice  I  have  made 
for  him,  nothing  shall  induce  me  to  give  him  up.  Tell  me,  I 
entreat,  my  dear  M.  Savarin,  where  he  is  hiding.  He  has  left 
the  parental  roof,  and  they  refused  there  to  give  me  his  ad- 
dress." 

"  My  poor  girl,  don't  be  mechante.  It  is  quite  true  that 
Gustave  Rameau  is  engaged  to  be  married  :  and  any  attempt  of 
yours  to  create  scandal " 

"  Monsieur,"  interrupted  Julie,  vehemently,  "don't  talk  to 
me  about  scandal  !  The  man  is  mine,  and  no  one  else  shall 
have  him.     His  address  1 " 

"  Mademoiselle,"  cried  Savarin,  angrily,  "  find  it  out  for 
yourself."  Then — repentant  of  rudeness  to  one  so  young  and 
so  desolate — he  added,  in  mild  expostulatory  accents,  "  Come, 
come,  7na  belle  enfant,  be  reasonable  ;  Gustave  is  no  loss.  He  is 
reduced  to  poverty." 

"  So  much  the  better.  When  he  was  well  off  I  never  cost 
him  more  than  a  supper  at  the  Maison  Doree  and  if  he  is 
poor  he  shall  many  me,  and  I  will  support  him  I " 

"  You  1  and  how  ?  " 

"  By  my  profession  when  peace  comes  ;  and  meanwhile  I  have 
offers  from  a  cafe  to  recite  warlike  songs.  Ah  !  you  shake  your 
head  incredulously.  The  ballet-dancer  recite  verses  ?  Yes  !  he 
taught  me  to  recite  his  own  Soyez  ban  pour  moi  M.  Savarin  ! 
do  say  where  I  can  find  moti  ho7nme  I  " 

"No." 

"  That  is  your  last  word }  " 

"  It  is." 

The  girl  drew  her  thin  shawl  round  her  and  hurried  ofll. 
Savarin  rejoined  his  friends.  "  Is  that  the  way  you  console 
yourself  for  the  absence  of  Madame  ? "  asked  De  Brez^,  dryly. 

"Fie!"  cried  Savarin,  indignantly  ;  "such  bad  jokes  are 
ill-tinied  What  strange  mixtures  of  good  and  bad,  of  noble 
and  of  base,  every  stratum  of  Paris  life  contains  !  There  is  that 
poor  girl,  in  one  way  contemptible,  no  doubt,  and  yet  in  another 
way  she  has  an  element  of  grandeur.  On  the  whole,  at  Paris 
the  women,  with  all  their  faults,  are  of  a  finer  mould  than  the 
men." 

"  French  gallantry  has  always  admitted  that  truth,"  said 
Lemercier.  "  Fox,  Fox,  Fox."  Uttering  this  cry,  he  darted 
forward  after  the  dog,  who  had  strayed  a  few  yards  to  salute 
another  dog  led  by  a  string,  and  caught  the  animal  in  his  arms, 


"Pardon  me,"  he  exclaimed,  returning  to  his  friends,  "but 
there  are  so  many  snares  for  dogs  at  present.  They  are  just 
coming  into  fashion  for  roasts,  and  Fox  is  so  plump." 

"  I  thought,"  said  Savarin,  "  that  it  was  resolved  at  all  the 
sporting-clubs  that,  be  the  pinch  of  famine  ever  so  keen,  the 
friend  of  man  should  not  be  eaten." 

"  That  was  while  the  beef  lasted  ;  but  since  we  have  come 
Jo  cats,  who  shall  predict  immunity  to  dogs .''  Qtiid  mtadiun 
nefastl  Unguimus  ?     Nothing  is  sacred  from  the  hand  of  rapine." 

The  church  of  the  Madeleine  now  stood  before  them. 
Moblotz  were  playing  pitch-and-toss  on  its  stejDS. 

"  I  don't  wish  you  to  accompany  me,  Messieurs,"  said 
Lemercier,  apologetically,  "  but  I  am  going  to  enter  the 
church." 

"  To  pray  ?  "  asked  De  Breze,  in  profound  astonishment. 

"  Not  exactly  ;  but  I  want  to  speak  to  my  friend  Roche- 
briant,  and  I  know  I  shall  find  him  there." 

*'  Praving  .''  "  again  asked  Ue  Br^ze, 

"  Yes." 

"That  is  curious — a  young  Parisian  exquisite  at  prayer — 
that  is  worth  seeing.     Let  us  enter,  too,  Savarin," 

They  enter  the  church.  It  is  filled,  and  even  the  sceptical 
De  Breze  is  impressed  and  awed  by  the  sight.  An  intense 
fervor  pervades  the  congregation.  The  majority,  it  is  true,  are 
women,  many  of  them  in  deep  mourning,  and  many  of  their 
faces  mourning  deeper  than  the  dress.  Everywhere  may  be 
seen  gushing  tears,  and  everywhere  faintly  heard  the  sound  of 
stifled  sighs.  Besides  the  women  were  men  of  all  ages — young, 
middle-aged,  old,  with  heads  bowed  down  and  hands  clasped, 
pale,  grave,  and  earnest.  Most  of  them  were  evidently  of  the 
superior  grade  in  life — nobles  and  the  higher  bourgoisis;  few 
of  the  ouvfier  class,  ver)'  few,  and  these  were  of  an  earlier  gen- 
eration. I  except  soldiers,  of  whom  there  were  many,  from  the 
provincial  Mobiles,  chiefly  Bretons ;  you  know  the  Breton 
soldiers  by  the  little  cross  worn  on  their  kepis. 

Among  them  Lemercier  at  once  distinguished  the  noble 
countenance  of  Alain  de  Rochebriant.  De  Brdzd  and  Savarir 
looked  at  each  other  with  solemn  eyes.  I  know  not  when 
either  had  last  been  within  a  church  ;  perhaps  both  were  star- 
tled to  find  that  religion  still  existed  in  Paris — and  largely  exist 
it  does,  though  little  seen  on  the  surface  of  society,  little  to  be 
estimated  by  the  articles  of  journals  and  the  reports  of  foreigners. 
Unhappily,  those  among  whom  it  exists  are  not  the  ruling  class 
— a.'-e  of  the  classes  that  are  dominated  over  and  obscured  'n 


THE  PARISIAXS.  2  I  (J 

every  country  the  moment  the  populace  becomes  master.  And 
at  that  moment  the  journals  chiefly  read  were  warring  more 
against  the  Deity  than  the  Prussians — were  denouncing  soldiers 
who  attended  mass.  "  The  gospel  certainly  makes  a  bad  sol- 
dier," writes  the  patriot  Pyat. 

Lemercier  knelt  down  quietly.  The  other  two  men  crept 
noiselessly  out,  and  stood  waiting  for  him  on  the  steps,  watch- 
ing the  Moblots  (Parisian  Moblots)  at  play. 

"  I  should  not  wait  for  the  rotiirier  if  he  had  not  promised 
me  a  ;v//,"  said  the  Vicomte  de  Breze,  with  a  pitiful  attempt  at 
the  patrician  wit  of  the  ancien  regime. 

Savarin  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  am  not  included  in 
the  invitation,"  said  he,  "  and  therefore  am  free  to  depart.  1 
must  go  and  look  up  a  form(;r  confrere  who  was  an  enthusiastic 
Red  Republican,  and  I  fear  does  not  get  so  much  to  eat  since 
he  has  no  longer  an  Emperor  to  abuse." 

So  Savarin  went  away.  A  few  minutes  afterwards  Lemer- 
cier emerged  from  the  church  with  Alain. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


"  I  KNEW  I  should  find  you  in  the  Madeleine,"  said  Lemer- 
cier, "  and  I  wished  much  to  know  when  you  had  news  from 
Duplessis.  He  and  your  i-ear  Jia?icee  are  with  your  aunt  still 
staying  at  Rochebriant  .-^  " 

"  Certainly.  A  pigeon  arrived  this  morning  with  a  few  lines. 
All  well  there." 

"  And  Duplessis  thinks,  despite  the  war,  that  he  shall  be 
able,  when  the  time  comes,  to  pay  Louvier  the  mortgage-sum  .-'  " 

"He  never  doubts  that.  His  credit  in  London  is  so  good. 
But  of  course  all  works  of  improvement  are  stopped." 

"Pray  did  he  mention  me? — anything  about  the  messengci 
who  was  to  pierce  the  Prussian  lines  ?  " 

"  What !  has  the  man  not  arrived  ?  It  is  two  weeks  since 
he  left." 

"  The  Uhlans  have  no  doubt  shot  him — the  assassins, — and 
drunk  up  my  twenty-five  thousand  francs — the  thieves." 

"  I  hope  not,  but  in  case  of  delay,  Duplessis  tells  me,  I 
am  to  remit  to  you  two  thousand  francs  for  your  present  wants 
I  will  send  them  to  you  this  evening," 


^20  THE  PARISIANS. 

"  How  the  deuce  do  you  possess  such  a  sum  ?  " 

"  I  came  from  Brittany  with  a  purse  well  filled.  Of  course 
1  could  have  no  scruples  in  accepting  money  from  my  destined 
father-in-law." 

'  And  you  can  spare  this  sum  ?  " 

'  Certainly — the  State  now  provides  for  me  ;  I  am  in  com- 
mand of  a  Breton  company." 

"  True.     Come  and  dine  with  me  and  De  Brez^." 

"  Alas  !  I  cannot.  I  have  to  see  both  the  Vandemars  be- 
fore I  return  to  the  camp  for  the  night.  And  now — hush- 
come  this  way  "  (drawing  Frederic  farther  from  De  Bre'ze)  • 
"  I  have  famous  news  for  you.  A  sortie  on  a  grand  scale  is 
imminent;  in  a  few  days  we  may  hope  for  it." 

"  I  have  heard  that  so  often  that  I  am  incredulous." 

"  Take  it  as  a  fact  now." 

"  What !     Trochu  has  at  last  matured  his  plan  ?  " 

"  He  has  changed  its  original  design,  which  was  to  cut 
through  the  Prussian  lines  to  Rouen,  occupying  there  the 
richest  country  for  supplies,  guarding  the  left  bank  of  the 
Seine  and  a  water-course  to  convoy  them  to  Paris.  The  in- 
cidents of  war  prevented  that ;  he  has  a  better  plan  now. 
The  victory  of  the  Army  of  the  Loire  at  Orleans  opens  a  new 
enterprise.  We  shall  cut  our  way  through  the  Prussians,  join 
that  army,  and  with  united  forces  fall  on  the  enemy  at  the  rear. 
Keep  this  a  secret  as  yet,  but  rejoice  with  me  that  we  shall 
prove  to  the  invaders  what  men  who  fight  for  their  native  soil 
can  do  under  the  protection  of  Heaven." 

"  Fox,  Fox,  mon  c/ieri,^'  said  Lemercier,  as  he  walked  to- 
wards the  Cafe  Riche  with  De  Bre'ze';  "thou  shalt  have  a 
festln  de  Balthasar  under  the  protection  of  Heaven." 


CHAPTER   XV. 

On  leaving  Lemercier  and  De  Br^z^,  Savarin  regained  the 
Boulevard,  and  pausing  every  now  and  then  to  exchange  a 
few  words  with  acquaintances — the  acquaintances  of  the  genial 
author  were  numerous — turned  into  the  qtiartier  Chaussee 
d'Antin,  and,  gaining  a  small  neat  house  with  a  richly-orna- 
mented yJzr^^/f,  mounted  very  clean  well-kept  stairs  to  a  third 
story.     On  one  of  the  doors  on  the  landing-place  was  nailed  a 


TITE  PAKTSIAXS. 


521 


card,  inscribed,  "  Gustave  Rameau,  komme  de  letfres.'"  Cer- 
tainly it  is  not  usual  in  Paris  thus  to  afficher  one's  self  as  "  a 
man  of  letters."  But  Genius  scorns  what  is  usual.  Had  not 
Victor  Hugo  left  in  the  hotel-books  on  the  Rhine  his  designa- 
tion "  homme  de  kttres  "  ;  Did  not  the  heir  to  one  of  the  loftiest 
houses  in  the  peerage  of  England,  and  who  was  also  a  firstrate 
amateur    in    painting,    inscribe   on  his   studio,  when   in   Italy, 

" ,  artiste  ";      Such  examples,  no  doubt,  were  familiar  to 

Gustave  Rameau,  and  '■'■  homme  de  letttes"  was  on  the  scrap  of 
pasteboard  nailed  to  his  door. 

Savarin  rang  ;  the  door  opened,  and  Gustave  appeared. 
The  poet  was,  of  course,  picturesquely  attired.  In  his  day 
of  fashion  he  had  worn  within-doors  a  very  pretty  fanciful 
costCime,  designed  after  portraits  of  the  young  Raffaeile  ;  that 
costume  he  had  preserved — he  wore  it  now.  It  looked  very 
threadbare,  and  the  poiirpoint  very  soiled.  But  the  beauty 
of  the  poet's  face  had  survived  the  lustre  of  the  garments. 
True,  thanks  to  absinthe,  the  cheeks  had  become  somewhat 
puffy  and  bloated.  Gray  was  distinctly  visible  in  the  long 
ebon  tresses.  But  still  the  beauty  of  the  face  was  of  that 
rare  type  which  a  Thorwaldsen  or  a  Gibson  seeking  a  model  for 
a  Narcissus  would  have  longed  to  fix  into  marble. 

Gustave  received  his  former  chief  with  a  certain  air  of  re- 
served dignity  ;  led  him  into  his  chamber,  only  divided  by  a 
curtain  from  his  accommodation  for  washing  and  slumber,  and 
placed  him  in  an  arm-chair  beside  a  drowsy  fire — fuel  had  al- 
ready become  very  dear. 

"  Gustave,"  said  Savarin,  "  are  you  in  a  mood  favorable  to 
a  little  serious  talk  .''  " 

"  Serious  talk  from  M.  Savarin  is  a  novelty  too  great  not  to 
command  my  profoundest  interest." 

"  Thank  you, — and  to  begin  :  [,  who  know  the  world  and 
mankind,  advise  you,  who  do  not,  never  to  meet  a  man  who 
wishes  to  do  you  a  kindness  with  an  ungracious  sarcasm.. 
Irony  is  a  weapon  I  ought  to  be  skilled  in,  but  weapons  are 
used  against  enemies,  and  it  is  only  a  tyro  who  flourishes  his 
rapier  in  the  face  of  his  friends." 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  M.  Savarin  still  permitted  me  to 
regard  him  as  a  friend." 

"  Because  I  discharged  the  duties  of  friend — remonstrated, 
advised,  and  warned.  However,  let  bygones  be  bygones.  I 
entreated  you  not  to  quit  the  safe  shelter  of  the  paternal  roof. 
You  insisted  on  doing  so.  I  entreated  you  not  to  send  to  one 
of  the  most  ferocious  of  the   Red,  or  rather  the  Communistic, 


^32  TV/^-  PAR  IS/A. VS. 

journals,  articles,  very  eloquent,  no  doubt,  but  which  would 
most  seriously  injure  you  in  the  eyes  of  quiet  orderly  people, 
and  compromise  your  future  literar}'  career  for  the  sake  of  a 
temporar)'  flash  in  the  pan  during  a  ver}-  evanescent  period 
of  revolutionary'  excitement.  You  scoraed  my  adjurations, 
but,  at  all  events,  you  had  the  grace  not  to  append  your  true 
name  to  those  truculent  effusions.  In  literature,  if  literature 
revive  in  France,  we  two  are  henceforth  separated.  But  1 
do  not  forego  the  friendly  interest  I  took  in  you  in  the  days 
when  you  were  so  continually  in  my  house.  My  wife,  who 
liked  you  so  cordially,  implored  me  to  look  after  you  during 
her  absence  from  Paris,  and,  enfin,  jnon  pauvre  garcon,  it 
would  grieve  me  very  much  if,  when  she  comes  back,  Iliad  to 
sav  to  her,  '  Gustave  Rameau  has  thrown  awav  the  chance  of 
redemption  and  of  happiness  which  you  deemed  was  secure  to 
him.'     A  PcBil  inalade  la  lumiere  nuit." 

So  saying,  he  held  out  his  hand  kindly, 

Gustave  who  was  far  from  deficient  in  affectionate  or  tender 
impulses,  took  the  hand  respectfully  and  pressed  it  warmly. 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  have  been  ungracious,  M.  Savarin,  and 
vouchsafe  to  hear  my  explanation." 

"  Willingly,  mon  garcon.'' 

"When  I  became  convalescent,  well  enough  to  leave  my 
father's  house,  there  were  circumstances  which  compelled  me 
to  do  so.  A  young  man  accustomed  to  the  life  of  z.gano?i  can't 
be  always  tied  to  his  mother's  apron-strings," 

"  Especially  if  the  apron-pocket  does  not  contain  a  bottle  of 
absinthe,"  said  Savarin  dr\'lv.  *'  You  mav  well  color  and  trv  to 
look  angry ;  but  I  know  that  the  doctor  strictly  forbade  the  use 
of  that  deadly  liqueur  and  enjoined  your  mother  to  keep  strict 
watch  on  your  liability  to  its  temptations.  And  hence  one 
cause  of  your  entiui  under  the  parental  roof.  But  if  there  vou 
could  not  imbibe  absinthe,  you  were  privileged  to  enjoy  a  much 
diviner  intoxication.  There  you  could  have  the  foretaste  of 
domestic  bliss — the  society  of  the  girl  you  loved,  and  who  was 
pledged  to  become  your  wife.  Speak  frankly.  Did  not  thai 
'tself  begin  to  be  wearisome  ?" 

"No,"  cried  Gustave  eigerly,  "it  was  not  wearisome, 
but " 

"Yes,  but " 

"  But  it  could  not  be  all-sufficing  to  a  soul  of  fire  like 
mine." 

"  Hem,"  murmured  Savarin — "  a  soul  of  fire  !  This  is  very 
interesting  -,  pray  go  on," 


THE  PARISIAXS.  ^2x 

"  TTie  calm,  cold,  sister-like  affection  of  a  childish  undevel- 
oped nature,  which  knew  no  passion  except  for  art,  and  was 
really  so  little  emancipated  from  the  nursery  as  to  take  for  se- 
rious truth  all  the  old  myths  of  religion — such  companionship 
may  be  very  soothing  and  pleasant  when  one  is  lying  on  ore's 
sofa  and  must  live  by  rule  ;  but  when  one  regains  the  vigoi  :  £ 
youth  and  health " 

"  Do  not  pause,"  said  Savarin,  gazing  with  more  compassion 
than  envy  on  that  melancholy  impersonation  of  youth  and 
health.  "  When  one  regains  that  vigor  of  which  I  myself  have 
no  recollection,  what  happens  ?  " 

"  The  thirst  for  excitement,  the  goads  of  ambition,  the  ir- 
resistible claims  which  the  world  urges  upon  genius,  return." 

"  And  that  genius,  finding  itself  at  the  North  Pole  amid  Cim- 
merian darkness  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  childish  intellect — in 
other  words  the  society  of  a  pure-minded  virgin,  who,  though  a 
good  romance-writer,  writes  nothing  but  what  a  virgin  may  read 
and,  though  a  bel  esprit^  says  her  prayers  and  goes  to  church — ■ 
then  genius — well,  pardon  my  ignorance — what  does  genius 
do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  M.  Savarin  1  don't  let  us  talk  any  more.  There  is  no 
sympathy  between  us.  I  cannot  bear  that  bloodless,  mocking, 
cynical  mode  of  dealing  with  grand  emotions,  which  belongs  to 
the  generation  of  the  Doctrinaires.  I  am  not  a  Thiers  or  a 
Guizot." 

"  Good  heavens  !  who  ever  accused  you  of  being  either.?  I 
did  not  mean  to  be  cynical.  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  has  often 
said  I  am,  but  I  did  not  think  you  would.  Pardon  me.  I  quite 
agree  with  the  philosopher  who  asserted  that  the  wisdom  of  the 
past  was  an  imposture,  that  the  meanest  intellect  now  living  is 
wiser  than  the  greatest  intellect  which  is  buried  in  Pere  la 
Chaise  ;  because  the  dwarf  who  follows  the  giant,  when  perched 
on  the  shoulders  of  the  giant,  sees  farther  than  the  giant  evei 
cou  d.  Allez.  I  go  in  for  your  generation.  I  abandon  Guizol 
and  Thiers.  Do  condescend  and  explain  to  my  dull  understand- 
ing, as  the  inferior  mortal  of  a  former  age,  what  are  the  grand 
emotions  which  impel  a  soul  of  fire  in  your  wiser  generation. 
The  thirst  of  excitement — what  excitement  ?  The  goads  ol 
dmb  tion — what  ambition  .?" 

"  A  new  social  system  is  struggling  from  the  dissolving  ele- 
ments of  the  old  one,  as,  in  the  fables  of  priestcraft,  the  soul 
frees  itself  from  the  body  which  has  become  ripe  for  the  grave, 
Of  that  new  system  I  aspire  to  be  a  champion — a  leader.  Be 
hold  the  excitment  that  allures  me,  the  ambition  that  goads." 


^24  "^^^^  r.-lKISIAXS. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Savain,  meekly.  "  I  am  answered,  ] 
recognize  the  dwarf  perched  on  the  back  of  the  giant.  Quit- 
ting these  lofty  themes,  I  venture  to  address  to  you  now  one 
simple  matter  of  fact  question — How  about  Mademoiselle  Cicog- 
na  ?  Do  you  think  you  can  induce  her  to  transplant  herself  to 
the  new  social  system,  which  I  presume  will  abolish,  among 
other  obsolete  myths,  the  institution  of  marriage  ?" 

"  M.  Savarin,  your  question  offends  me.  Theoretically  J 
am  opposed  to  the  existing  superstitions  that  incumber  the  very 
simple  principle  by  which  may  be  united  two  persons  so  long  as 
they  desire  the  union,  and  separated  so  soon  as  the  union  be- 
comes distasteful  to  either.  But  1  am  perfectly  aware  that  such 
theories  would  revolt  a  young  lady  like  Mademoiselle  Cicogna. 
I  have  never  even  named  them  to  her,  and  our  engage- 
ment holds  good." 

"  Engagement  of  marriage  ?  No  period  for  the  ceremony 
fixed  ?" 

"  That  is  not  my  fault.  I  urged  it  on  Isaura  with  all  earnest- 
ness before  I  left  my  father's  house." 

"  That  was  long  after  the  seige  had  begun.  Listen  to  me. 
Gustave.  No  persuasion  of  mine  or  my  wife's,  or  Mrs.  Morley's 
could  induce  Isaura  to  quit  Paris  while  it  was  yet  time.  She 
said  very  simply  that,  having  pledged  her  truth  and  hand  to 
you,  it  would  be  treason  to  honor  and  duty  if  she  should  allow 
any  considerations  for  herself  to  be  even  discussed  so  long  as 
you  needed  her  presence.  You  were  then  still  suffering,  and 
though  convalescent,  not  without  danger  of  a  relapse.  And 
yourinother  said  to  her — I  heard  the  words — '  'Tis  not  for  his 
bodily  health  I  could  dare  ask  you  to  stay,  when  ever}'  man 
who  can  afford  it  is  sending  away  his  wife,  sisters,  daughters. 
As  for  that  I  should  suffice  to  tend  him ;  but  if  you  go,  I  resign 
all  hope  for  the  health  of  his  mind  and  his  soul.'  I  think  at 
Paris  there  may  be  female  poets  and  artists  whom  that  sort  of 
argument  would  not  have  much  influenced.  But  it  so  happens 
that  Isaura  is  not  a  Farisienne.  She  believes  in  those  old 
myths  which  you  think  fatal  to  sympathize  with  yourself;  and 
those  old  myths  also  lead  her  to  believe  that  where  a  woman 
has  promised  she  will  devote  her  life  to  a  man,  she  cannot  for- 
sake him  when  told  by  his  mother  that  she  is  necessary  to  the 
health  of  his  mind  and  his  soul.  Stay.  Before  you  interrupt 
nie,  let  me  finish  what  I  have  to  say.  It  appears  that,  §0  soon  as 
your  bodily  health  was  improved,  you  felt  that  your  niiud  and 
soul  could  take  care  of  themselves  ;  and  certainly  it  seems  to 


THE  PARISIANS.  ^2C 

■ne  that  Isaura  Cicogna  is  no  longer  of   the   smallest  use  'o 
either." 

Rameau  was  evidently  much  disconcerted  by  this  speech. 
He  saw  what  Savarin  was  driving  at — the  renunciation  of  all 
bond  between  Isaura  and  himself.  He  was  not  prepared  for 
such  renunciation.  He  still  felt  for  the  Italian  as  much  of  love 
as  he  could  feel  for  any  woman  who  did  not  kneel  at  his  feet, 
as  at  those  of  Apollo  condescending  to  the  homage'  of  Arcadian 
maids.  But,  on  the  one  hand,  he  felt  that  many  circumstances 
had  occurred  since  the  disaster  at  Sedan  to  render  Isauia  a 
very  much  less  desirable /(^r//^  than  she  had  been  when  he  had 
first  wrung  from  her  the  pledge  of  betrothal.  In  the  palmy 
times  of  a  government  in  which  literature  and  art  commanded 
station  and  insured  fortune,  Isaura,  whether  as  authoress  or 
singer,  was  a  brilliant  marriage  for  Gustave  Rameau.  She  had 
also  then  an  assured  and  competent,  if  modest,  income.  But 
when  times  change,  people  change  with  them.  As  to  income 
for  the  moment  (and  Heaven  only  could  say  how  long  that 
moment  might  last),  Isaura's  income  had  disappeared.  It  will 
be  recollected  that  Louvier  had  invested  her  whole  fortune  in 
the  houses  to  be  built  in  the  street  called  after  his  name.  No 
houses,  even  when  built,  paid  any  rent  now.  Louvier  had 
quitted  Paris  ;  and  Isaura  could  only  be  subsisting  upon  such 
small  sum  as  she  might  have  had  in  hand  before  the  siege  com- 
menced. All  career  in  such  literature  and  art  as  Isaura  adorned 
was  at  a  dead  stop.  Now,  to  do  Rameau  justice,  he  was  by  no 
means  an  avaricious  or  mercenary  man.  But  he  yearned  for 
modes  of  life  to  which  money  was  essential.  He  liked  his 
"  comforts  ;  "  and  his  comforts  included  the  luxuries  of  elegajice 
and  show — comforts  not  to  be  attained  by  marriage  with  Isaura 
under  existing  circumstances. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  quite  true  that  he  had  urged  her  to  marry 
him  at  once,  before  he  had  quitted  his  father's  house  ;  and  her 
modest  shrinking  from  such  proposal,  however  excellent  the 
reasons  for  delay  in  the  national  calamities  of  the  time,  as  well 
as  the  poverty  which  the  calamity  threatened,  had  greatly 
-wounded  his  armour-ptopre.  He  had  always  felt  that  her  affec- 
tion for  him  was  not  love  ;  and  though  he  could  reconcile  him- 
self to  that  conviction  when  many  solid  advantages  were  at- 
tached to  the  prize  of  her  love,  and  when  he  was  ill,  and  peni- 
tent, and  maudlin,  and  the  calm  affection  of  a  saint  seemed  to 
him  infinitely  preferable  to  the  vehement  passion  of  a  sinner, 
— yet  when  Isaura  was  only  Isaura  by  herself — Isaura  tninns 
all  the  et  cetera  which  had  previously  been  taken  into  accouni 


e26  ^^^^"  PARISIANS. 

— thi!  want  of  adoration  for  himself  very  much   lessened  hei 
value. 

Siil  ,  though  he  acquiesced  in  the  delayed  fulfilment  of  the 
engageinent  with  Isaura,  he  had  no  thought  of  withdrawing 
from  the  engagement  itself,  and  after  a  slight  pause  he  replied  : 
"You  do  me  great  injustice  if  you  suppose  that  the  occupations 
to  which  I  devote  myself  render  me  less  sensible  to  the  merits 
of  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  or  less  eager  for  our  union.  On 
the  ccntrarv',  I  will  confide  to  you — as  a  man  of  the  world 
— one  main  reason  why  I  quitted  my  father's  house,  and 
why  I  desire  to  keep  my  present  address  a  secret.  Made- 
moiselL  Caumartin  conceived  for  me  a  passion — a  caprice 
— which  was  very  flattering  for  a  time,  but  which  latterly  became 
verv'  troublesome.  Figure  to  yourself — she  daily  came  to  our 
house  while  I  was  lying  ill,  and  with  the  greatest  difficulty  my 
mother  got  her  out  of  it.  That  was  not  all.  She  pestered  me 
with  letters  containing  all  sorts  of  threats — nay,  actually  kept 
watch  at  the  house  ;  and  one  day  when  I  entered  the  carriage 
with  my  mother  and  Signora  Venosta  for  a  drive  in  the  Bois 
(meaning  to  call  for  Isaura  by  the  way),  she  darted  to  the  car- 
riage-door, caught  my  hand,  and  would  have  made  a  scene  if 
the  coachman  had  given  her  leave  to  do  so.  Luckily  he  had 
the  tact  to  whip  on  his  horses,  and  we  escaped.  I  had  some 
little  difficulty  in  convincing  Signora  Venosta  that  the  girl 
was  crazed.  But  I  felt  the  danger  I  incurred  of  her  coming 
upon  me  some  moment  when  in  company  with  Isaura,  and  so  I 
left  my  father's  house  ;  and  naturally  wishing  to  steer  clear  of 
this  vehement  little  demon  till  I  am  safely  married,  I  keep  my 
address  a  secret  from  all  who  are  likely  to  tell  her  of  it." 

"  You  do  wisely  if  you  are  really  afraid  of  her  and  cannot 
trust  your  nerves  to  say  to  her  plainly,  '  I  am  engaged  to  be 
married ;  all  is  at  an  end  between  us.  Do  not  force  me  to 
employ  the  police  to  protect  myself  from  unwelcome  importu- 
nities.' " 

"  Honestly  speaking,  I  doubt  if  1  have  the  nerve  to  do  that, 
and  I  doubt  still  more  if  it  would  be  of  any  avail.  It  is  very 
ennuyant  to  be  so  passionately  loved;  but,  que  voiiles  vous  ?  It 
is  my  fate." 

"  Poor  martyr!  I  condole  with  you  :  and,  to  say  the  truth, 
it  was  chiefly  to  warn  you  of  Mademoiselle  Caumartin's  perti- 
nacity that  I  called  this  evening." 

Here  Savarin  related  the  particulars  of  his  rencontre  with  Julie, 
and  concluded  by  saying  :  "  I  sujjpose  I  may  take  your  word 
of  honor  that  you  will  firmly   resist  all  temptation  to  renew  a 


THE  PARISIANS.  ^27 

connection  which  would  be  so  incompatibfe  with  the  respect  due 
to  yom  fiancee  ?  Fatherless  and  protectorless  as  Isaura  is,  I 
feel  bound  to  act  as  a  virtual  guardian  to  one  in  whom  mv  wife 
rakes  so  deep  an  interest,  and  to  whom,  as  she  thinks,  she  had 
some  hand  in  bringing  about  your  engagement :  she  is  committed 
to  no  small  responsibilities.  Do  not  allow  poor  Julie,  whom  I 
fhicerely  pity  to  force  on  me  the  unpleasant  duty  of  warning 
your  fiancee  of  the  dangers  to  which  she  might  be  subjected  by 
marriage  with  an  Adonis  whose  fate  it  is  to  be  so  profoundly 
beloved  by  the  sex  in  general,  and  by  ballet  nymphs  in  parti- 
cular." 

"  There  is  no  chance  of  so  disagreeable  a  duty  being  incum- 
bent on  you,  M.  Savarin.  Of  course,  what  I  myself  have  told 
you  in  confidence  is  sacred." 

"  Certainly.  There  are  things  in  the  life  af  a  garcon  before 
marriage  which  would  be  an  affront  to  the  modesty  of  his 
fiancee  to  communicate  and  discuss.  But  then  those  things 
must  belong  exclusively  to  the  past,  and  cast  no  shadow  over 
the  future.  I  will  not  interrupt  you  further.  No  doubt  you 
have  work  for  this  night  before  you.  Do  the  Red  journalists 
for  whom  you  write  pay  enough  to  keep  you  in  these  terribly 
dear  times  ?  " 

"  Scarcely.  But  I  look  forward  to  wealth  and  fame  in  the 
future.     And  3'ou  ?" 

"  I  just  escape  starvation.  If  the  siege  last  much  longer,  it 
is  not  of  the  gout  I  shall  die.     Good-night  to  you." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


Isaura  had,  as  we  have  seen,  been  hitherto  saved  by  the 
siege  and  its  consequences  from  the  fulfilment  of  her  engage- 
ment to  Gustave  Rameau ;  and  since  he  had  quitted  his 
father's  house  she  had  not  only  seen  less  of  him,  but  a  certain 
chill  crept  into  his  converse  in  the  visits  he  paid  to  her.  The 
compassionate  feeling  his  illness  had  excited,  confirmed  by 
the  unwonted  gentleness  of  his  mood  and  the  short-lived 
remorse  with  which  he  spoke  of  his  past  faults  and  follies 
necessarily  faded  away  in  proportion  as  he  regained  that  kind 
of  febrile  strength  which  was  his  normal  state  of  health,  and 
with  it  the  arrogant  self-assertion  which  was  ingrained  in  his 


528  THE  PARISIANS. 

character.  But  it  was  now  more  than  ever  that  she  became 
aware  of  the  antagonism  between  all  that  constituted  his  inner 
life  and  her  own.  It  was  not  that  he  volunteered  in  her 
presence  the  express  utterance  of  those  opinions,  social  or 
religious,  which  he  addressed  to  the  public  in  the  truculent 
journal  to  which,  under  a  nom  de  pluitie,  he  w'as  the  most 
inflammatory  contributor.  Whether  it  was  that  he  shrank 
from  insulting  the  ears  of  the  pure  virgin  whom  he  had  wooed 
as  wife  with  avowals  of  his  disdain  of  marriage  bonds,  or  per- 
haps from  shocking  yet  more  her  womanly  humanity  and  her 
religious  faith  by  cries  for  the  blood  of  anti-republican  traitors 
and  the  downfall  of  Christian  altars ;  or  whether  he  yet  clung, 
though  with  relapsing  affection,  to  the  hold  which  her  promise 
had  imposed  on  him,  and  felt  that  that  hold  would  be  forever 
gone,  and  that  she  would  recoil  from  his  side  in  terror  and 
dismay,  if  she  once  learned  that  the  man  who  had  implored 
her  to  be  his  saving  angel  from  the  comparatively  mild  errors 
of  youth,  had  so  belied  his  assurance,  so  mocked  her  credulity, 
as  deliberately  to  enter  into  active  warfare  against  all  that  he 
knew  her  sentiments  regarded  as  noble  and  her  conscience 
received  as  divine  :  despite  the  suppression  of  avowed  doc- 
trine on  his  part,  the  total  want  of  sympathy  between  these 
antagonistic  natures  made  itself  felt  by  both — more  promptly 
felt  by  Isaura.  If  Gustave  did  not  frankly  announce  to  her 
m  that  terrible  time  (when  all  that  a  little  later  broke  out  on 
the  side  of  the  Communists  was  more  or  less  forcing  ominous 
way  to  the  lips  of  those  who  talked  with  confidence  to  each 
other  whether  to  approve  or  to  condemn)  the  associates  with 
whom  he  was  leagued,  the  path  to  which  he  had  committed 
his  career, — still  for  her  instincts  for  genuine  Art — which  for 
its  development  needs  the  serenity  of  peace,  which  for  its 
ideal  needs  dreams  that  soar  into  the  Infinite — Gustave  had 
only  the  scornful  sneer  of  the  man  who  identifies  with  his 
ambition  the  violent  upset  of  all  that  civilization  has  estab- 
lislied  in  this  world,  and  the  blank  negation  of  all  that  patient 
hope  and  heroic  aspiration  which  humanity  carries  on  into  t.ie 
next. 

On  his  side,  Gustave  Rameau,  who  was  not  without  certain 
fine  and  delicate  attributes  in  a  complicated  nature  over 
which  the  personal  vanity  and  the  mobile  temperament  of  the 
Parisian  reigned  supreme,  chafed  at  the  restraints  imposed  on 
him.  No  matter  what  a  man's  doctrines  may  be, — however 
abominable  you  and  I  may  deem  them — man  desires  to  find 
in  the  dearest   fellowship   he    can    establish,  that    sympatliy 


THE  PARISIANS.  ^29 

in  the  \\'oman  his  choice  singles  out  from  her  sex — deference 
to  his  opinions,  sympathy  with  his  objects,  as  man  So,  too, 
Gustave's  sense  of  honor — and  according  to  his  own  Parisian 
code  that  sense  was  keen — became  exquisitely  stung  by  the 
thought  that  he  was  compelled  to  play  the  part  of  a  mean 
dissinmlator  to  the  girl  for  whose  opinions  he  had  the  pro- 
foundest  contempt.  How  could  these  two,  betrothed  to  each 
other,  not  feel,  though  without  coming  to  open  dissension, 
that  between  them  had  flowed  the  inlet  of  water  by  which 
they  had  been  riven  asunder  ?  What  man,  if  he  can  imagine 
himself  a  Gustave  Rameau,  can  blame  the  revolutionist  ab- 
sorbed in  ambitious  projects  for  turning  the  pyramid  of  society 
topsy-turvy,  if  he  shrank  more  and  more  from  the  companion- 
ship of  a  betrothed  with  whom  he  could  not  venture  to 
exchange  three  words  without  caution  and  reserve  ?  And 
what  woman  can  blame  an  Isaura  if  she  felt  a  sensation  of 
relief  at  the  very  neglect  of  the  affianced  whom  she  had  com- 
passionated and  could  never  love  ? 

Possibly  the  reader  may  best  judge  of  the  state  of  Isaura's 
mind  at  this  time  by  a  few  brief  extracts  from  an  imperfect 
fragmentary  journal,  in  which,  amid  saddened  and  lonely 
hours,  she  held  converse  with  herself. 

"  One  day  at  Enghien  I  listened  silently  to  a  conversation 
between  M.  Savarin  and  the  Englishman,  who  sought  to  ex- 
plain the  conception  of  duty  in  which  the  German  poet  has 
given  such  noble  utterance  to  the  thoughts  of  the  German 
philosopher — viz.,  that  moral  aspiration  has  the  same  goal  as 
the  artistic, — the  attainment  to  the  calm  delight  wherein  the 
pain  of  effort  disappears  in  the  content  of  achievement.  Thus 
in  life,  as  in  art,  it  is  through  discipline  that  we  arrive  at 
freedom,  and  duty  only  completes  itself  when  all  motives,  all 
actions,  are  attuned  into  one  harmonious  whole,  and  it  is  not 
striven  for  as  duty,  but  enjoyed  as  happiness.  M.  Savarin 
treated  this  theory  with  the  mockery  with  which  the  French 
R'it  is  ever  apt  to  treat  what  it  terms  German  mysticism. 
According  to  him,  duty  must  always  be  a  hard  and  difficult 
stiuggle  ;  and  he  said  laughingly,  'Whenever  a  man  says, 
"  1  have  done  my  duty  "  it  is  with  a  long  face  and  a  mournful 
sigh.' 

"  Ah,  how  devoutly  I  listened  to  the  Englishman  !  how 
harshly  the  Frenchman's  irony  jarred  upon  my  ears  !  And 
yet  now,  in  the  duty  that  life  imposes  on  me,  to  fulfil  which 
I  strain  every  power  vouchsafed  to  my  nature,  and  seek  to 
crush  down  every  impulse   that  rebels,  where  is  the  promised 


.,o  THE  PARISIANS. 

calm,  where  any  approach  to  the  content  of  achiev.ement  i 
Contemplating  the  way  before  me,  the  Beautiful  even  of  Art 
has  vanished.  I  see  but  cloud  and  desert.  Can  this  which  I 
assume  to  be  duty  really  be  so  ?  Ah,  is  it  not  sin  even  to  ask 
m\  heart  that  question  ? 

"  Madame  Rameau  is  ver\'  angry  with  her  son  for  hi? 
neglect  both  of  his  parents  and  of  me.  I  have  had  to  lake 
his"  part  against  her.  I  would  not  have  him  lose  their  love. 
Poor  Gustave  !  But  w^hen  Madame  Rameau  suddenly  said 
to-day,  '  I  erred  in  seeking  the  union  between  thee  and  Gus- 
tave.' Retract  thy  promise  ;  in  doing  so  thou  wilt  be  justified,' 
— oh,  the  strange'joy  that  flashed  upon  me  as  she  spoke  !  Am 
I  justified  ?  Am  I  ?  Oh,  if  that  Englishman  had  never 
crossed  my  path  !  Oh,  if  I  had  never  loved  !  or  if  in  the  last 
time  we  met  he  had  not  asked  for  my  love  and  confessed 
his  own  !  Then,  I  think,  I  could  honestly  reconcile  my  con- 
science with  my  longings,  and  say  to  Gustave,  '  We  do  not 
suit  each  other  \  be  we  both  released  ! '  But  now — is  it  that 
Gustave  is  really  changed  from  what  he  was  when,  in  despond- 
ence at  mv  own  lot,  and  in  pitying  belief  that  I  might  brighten 
and  exalt  his,  I  plighted  my  troth  to  him  ?  or  is  it  not  rather 
that  the  choice  I  thus  voluntarily  made  became  so  intolerable 
a  thought  the  moment  I  knew  I  w^as  beloved  and  sought  by 
anothe'r,  and  from  that  moment  I  lost  the  strength  I  had 
before, — strength  to  silence  the  voice  of  my  own  heart  ?  What ! 
is  it  the  image  of  that  other  one  which  is  persuading  me  to 
be  false .? — to  exaggerate  the  failings,  to  be  blind  to  the 
merits,  of  him  who  has  a  right  to  say,  'I  am  what  I  was 
when  thou  didst  pledge  thyself  to  take  me  for  better  or  for 

worse  ? ' 

******* 

"  Gustave  has  been  here,  after  an  absence,  of  several  days. 
He  was  not  alone.  The  good  Abbe  Vertpre  and  Madame  de 
Vandemar,  with  her  son  M.  Raoul,  were  present.  They  had 
come  on  matters  connected  with  our  ambulance.  They  do  not 
know  of  my  engagement  to  Gustave  ;  and,  seeing  him  in  the 
uniform  of 'the  National  Guard,  the  Abbe  courteously  addressed 
to  him  some  questions  as  to  the  possibility  of  checking  the  ter 
rible  increase  of  the  vice  of  intoxication,  so  alien  till  of  late  to 
the  habits  of  the  Parisians,  and  becoming  fatal  to  discipline 
and  bodily  endurance  :  could  the  number  of  the  canti»es  on 
the  rampart  be  more  limited  ?  Gustave  answered  with  rude- 
ness  and    bitter  sarcasm,  '  Before  priests   could  be   critics  in 


THE  I'AJ^JSJAAi>. 


531 


military  matters,  they  must  undertake  military  service   them- 
selves.' 

"The  Abbe  replied  with  unalterable  good  humor,  '  But,  in 
order  to  criticise  the  effects  of  drunkenness,  must  one  get 
drunk  one's  self  ? '  Gustave  was  put  out,  and  retired  into  a 
corner  of  the  room,  keeping  sullen  silence  till  my  other  visitors 
left. 

"  Then,  before  I  could  myself  express  the  pain  his  words 
and  manner  had  given  me,  he  said  abruptly,  '  I  wonder  how 
you  can  tolerate  the  tartuferie  which  may  amuse  on  the  comic 
stage,  but  in  the  tragedy  of  these  times  is  revolting.'  This 
speech  roused  my  anger,  and  the  conversation  that  ensued  was 
the  gravest  that  had  ever  passed  between  us. 

"  If  Gustave  were  of  stronger  nature  and  more  concentrated 
will,  I  believe  that  the  only  feelings  I  should  have  for  him 
would  be  antipathy  and  dread.  But  it  is  his  very  weakness  and 
inconsistencies  that  secure  to  him  a  certain  tenderness  of  in- 
terest. I  think  he  never  could  be  judged  without  great  indul- 
gence by  women  ;  there  is  in  him  so  much  of  the  child, — way- 
ward, irritating  at  one  moment,  and  the  next  penitent,  affec- 
tionate. One  feels  as  if  persistence  in  evil  were  impossible  to 
one  so  delicate  both  in  mind  and  form.  That  peculiar  order 
of  genius  to  which  he  belongs  seems  as  if  it  ought  to  be  so 
estranged  from  all  directions  violent  or  coarse.  When  in 
poetry  he  seeks  to  utter  some  audacious  and  defying  sentiment, 
the  substance  melts  away  in  daintiness  of  expression,  in  soft, 
lute-like  strains  of  slender  music.  And  when  he  has  stung, 
angered,  revolted  my  heart  the  most,  suddenly  he  subsides  into 
such  pathetic  gentleness,  such  tearful  remorse,  that  I  feel  as  if 
resentment  to  one  so  helpless,  desertion  of  one  who  must  fall 
without  the  support  of  a  friendly  hand,  were  a  selfish  cruelty. 
It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  were  dragged  towards  a  precipice  by  a 
sickly  child  clinging  to  my  robe. 

"  But  in  this  last  conversation  with  him  his  language  in  re- 
gard to  subjects  I  hold  most  sacred  drew  forth  from  me  words 
which  startled  him,  and  which  may  avail  to  save  him  from  the 
worst  insanity  of  human  minds,— the  mimicry  of  the  Titans 
who  would  have  dethroned  a  God  to  restore  a  Chaos.  I  told 
him  frankly  that  I  had  only  promised  to  share  his  fate  on  my 
faith  in  his  assurance  of  my  power  to  guide  it  heavenward, 
and  that  if  the  opinions  he  announced  were  seriously  enter- 
tained, and  put  forth  in  defiance  of  Heaven  itself,  we  were 
separated  forever.  I  told  him  how  earnestly,  in  the  calamities 
of  the  tiinp   my  own  soul  had  sought  to  take  refuge  in  thoughts 


532  THE  PARISIANS. 

and  hopes  beyond  the  earth,  and  how  deeply  many  a  senti- 
ment that  in  former  days  passed  by  nie  with  a  smile  in  the 
light  talk  of  the  salons  now  shocked  me  as  an  outrage  on  the 
reverence  which  the  mortal  child  owes  to  the  Divine  Father. 
I  owned  to  him  how  much  of  comfort,  of  sustainment,  of 
thought  and  aspiration,  elevated  beyond  the  sphere  of  Art  in 
which  1  had  hitherto  sought  the  purest  air,  the  loftiest  goal,  1 
owed  to  intercourse  with  minds  like  those  of  the  Abbd  Vertpre' ; 
and  how  painfully  I  felt  as  if  I  were  guilty  of  ingratitude  when 
he  compelled  me  to  listen  to  insults  on  those  whom  I  recog- 
nized as  bcmfactors. 

"  I  wished  to  speak  sternly  ;  but  it  is  my  great  misfortune, 
my  prevalent  weakness,  that  I  cannot  be  stern  when  I  ought 
to  be.  It  is  with  me  in  life  as  in  Art.  I  never  could  on  the 
stage  have  taken  the  part  of  a  Norma  or  a  Medea.  If  I  at- 
tempt in  fiction  a  character  which  deserves  condemnation,  I 
am  untrue  to  poetic  justice.  I  cannot  condemn  and  execute  ; 
I  can  but  compassionate  and  pardon  the  creature  I  myself 
have  created.  I  was  never  in  the  real  world  stern  but  to  one  ; 
and  then,  alas  !  it  was  because  I  loved  where  I  could  no  longer 
love  with  honor  ;  and  I,  knowing  my  weakness,  had  terror  lest 
I  should  yield. 

"  So  Gustave  did  not  comprehend  from  my  voice,  my  man 
ner,  how  gravely  I  was  in  earnest.  But,  himself  softened,  af- 
fected to  tears,  he  confessed  his  own  faults — ceased  to  argue, 
in  order  to  praise  ;  and — and — uttering  protestations  seeming- 
ly the  most  sincere,  he  left  me  bound  to  him  still — bound  to 
him  still — woe  is  me  !  " 


It  is  true  that  Isaura  had  come  more  directly  under  the  in- 
fluence of  religion  than  she  had  been  in  the  earlier  dates  of 
this  narrative.  There  is  a  time  in  the  lives  of  most  of  us, 
and  especially  in  the  lives  of  women,  when,  despondent  of  all 
joy  in  an  earthly  future,  and  tortured  by  conflicts  between  in- 
clination and  duty,  we  transfer  all  the  passion  and  fervor  of 
fiur  troubled  souls  to  enthusiastic  yearnings  for  the  Divine 
Live;  seeking  to  rebaptize  ourselves  in  the  fountain  of  its 
mercy,  taking  thence  the  only  hopes  that  can  cheer,  the  only 
strength  that  can  sustain  us.  Such  a  time  had  come  to  Isaura. 
Formerly  she  had  escaped  from  the  griefs  of  the  work-day 
world  in  the  garden-land  of  Art.  Now.  Art  had  grown  unwel- 
come to  her,  almost  hateful.  Gone  was  the  spell  from  the 
gnrden-land  ;  its  flowers  were  faded,  its  paths  were  stony,  its 


THE  PARISIAXS. 


533 


sunslilne  had  vanished  in  mist  and  rain.  There  are  two  voices 
of  Nature  in  the  soul  of  the  genuine  artist, — that  is,  of  him 
who,  because  he  can  create,  comprehends  the  necessity  of  the 
great  Creator.  Those  voices  are  never  both  silent.  When 
one  is  hushed,  the  other  becomes  distinctly  audible.  The  one 
speaks  to  him  of  Art,  the  other  of  Religion. 

At  that  period  several  societies  for  the  relief  and  tendance 
of  the  wounded  had  been  formed  by  the  women  of  Paris, — the 
earliest,  if  I  mistake  not,  by  ladies  of  the  highest  rank — among 
whom  were  the  Comtesse  de  Vandemar  and  the  Contessa  di 
Rimini — though  it  necessarily  included  others  of  station  less 
elevated.     To  this  society,  at  the  request  of  Alain  de  Roche- 
briant  and  of  Enguerrand,  Isaura  had  eagerly  attached  herself. 
It  occuf  ied  much  of  her  time  ;  and  in  connection   with  it  she 
was  brought  much   into   sympathetic  acquaintance  with  Raoul 
de  Vandemar — the  most  zealous  and   active  member  of  that 
society  of  St.  Francois  de  Sales,  to  which  belonged  other  young 
nobles  of  the  Legitimist  creed.     The  passion  of  Raoul's  life  was 
the    relief   of  human  suffering.     In  him  was  personified   the 
ideal  of   Christian  charity.     I   think   all,   or  most  of  us,  have 
known  what  it  is  to  pass  under  the  influence  of  a  nature  that  is 
so  far  akin  to  ours  that  it  desires  to  become  something  better 
and  higher  than  it  is — that  desire  being  paramount   in  our- 
selves— but  seeks  to  be  that  something  in   ways  not  akin  to, 
but   remote  from,  the  wa3^s  in  which  we  seek  it.     WTien  this 
contact  happens,  either  one  nature,  by  the  mere  force  of  vvill^ 
subjugates  and  absorbs  the  other,   or  both,  while  preserving 
their  own  individuality,  apart  and    independent,  enrich  them- 
selves by  mutual  interchange  ;  and  the  asperities  which  differ- 
ences of  taste  and  sentiment  in  detail  might  otherwise  provoke 
melt  in  the  sympathy  which  unites  spirits  striving  with  equal 
earnestness  to   rise    nearer   to   the   unseen    and  unattainable 
Source,  which  they  equally  recognize  as  Divine. 

Perhaps,  had  these  two  persons  met  a  year  ago  in  the  or- 
dinary intercourse  of  the  world,  neither  would  have  detected 
the  sympathy  of  which  I  speak.  Raoul  was  not  without  the 
prejudices  against  artists  and  writers  of  romance,  that  are 
shared  by  many  who  cherish  the  persuasion  that  all  is  vanity 
which  does  not  concentrate  imagination  and  intellect  in  the 
destinies  of  the  soul  hereafter ;  and  Isaura  might  have  excited 
his  compassion,  certainly  not  his  reverence  :  while  to  her,  his 
views  on  all  that  seeks  to  render  the  actual  life  attractive  and 
embellished,  through  the  accomplishments  of  Muse  and  Grace, 
would  have  seemed   the  narrow-minded  asceticism  of  a  bigot 


234.  THE  PARISIANS. 

Ikit  now,  amid  the  direful  calamities  of  the  time,  the  beauty  o( 
both  natures  became  visible  to  each.  To  the  eyes  of  Isaura, 
cenderness  became  predominant  in  the  monastic  self-denial  oi 
Rnoul.  To  the  eyes  of  Raoul,  devotion  became  predominant 
in  the  gentle  thoughtfulness  of  Isaura.  Their  intercourse  wag 
in  ambulance  and  hos]atal — in  care  for  the  wounded,  in  prayer 
for  the  dying.  Ah  !  it  is  easy  to  declaim  against  the  frivolities 
and  vices,  of  Parisian  society  as  it  appears  on  the  surface  ;  and 
in  revolutionary  times  it  is  the  verj'  worst  of  Paris  that  ascends 
in  scum  to  the  top.  But  descend  below  the  surface,  even  in  that 
demoralizing  suspense  of  order,  and  nowhere  on  earth  might 
the  angel  have  beheld  the  image  of  humanity  more  amply  vindi- 
cating its  claim  to  the  heritage  of  heaven. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 


The  warning  announcement  of  some  great  efifort  on  the  part 
of  the  besieged,  which  Alain  had  given  to  Lemercier,  was  soon 
to  be  fulfilled. 

For  some  days  the  principal  thoroughfares  were  ominously 
lined  with  military  convois.  The  loungers  on  theBoulevards 
stopped  to  gaze  on  the  long  defiles  of  troops  and  cannon, 
commissariat  conveyances,  and,  saddening  accompaniments  !  the 
vehicles  of  various  ambulances  for  the  removal  of  the  wounded. 
With  what  glee  the  loungers  said  to  each  other,  "■Enfin  /"  Among 
all  the  troops  that  Paris  sent  forth,  none  were  so  popular  as 
those  which  Paris  had  not  nurtured — the  sailors.  From  the 
moment  they  arrived,  the  sailors  had  been  the  pets  of  the  capi- 
tal. They  soon  proved  themselves  the  most  notable  contrast 
to  that  force  which  Pa-is  herself  had  produced — the  National 
Guard.  Their  frames  were  hardy,  their  habits  active,  their 
discipline  perfect,  their  manners  mild  and  polite.  "  Oh,  if  all 
our  troops  were  like  these  !"  was  the  common  exclamation  of 
the  Parisian. 

At  'ast  burst  forth  upon  Pat.s  the  proclam'ations  of  Gea 
eral  Ti  jchu  and  General  Ducrot ;  the  first  brief,  calm,  and 
Breton-like,  ending  with  "  Putting  our  trust  in  God.  March  on 
for  our  country :"  the  second  more  detailed,  more  candidly 
stating  obstacles  and  difficulties,  but  fiery  with  eloquent  en- 
thusiasm, not  unsupported   by   military   statistics,    in    the  four 


THE  PARISIANS. 


535 


hundred  cannon,  two-thirds  of  which  were  of  the  largest  calibre 
that  no  material  object  could  resist  ;  more  than  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  soldiers,  all  well  armed,  well  equip- 
ped, abundantly  provided  with  munitions,  and  all(yV«  a 
/'  espoir)  animated  by  an  irresistible  ardor.  "  For  me,"  con- 
cludes the  General,  "  I  am  resolved.  I  swear  before  you,  be- 
fore the  whole  nation,  that  1  will  not  re-enter  Paris  except  as 
dead  or  victorious." 

At  these  proclamations,  who  then  at  Paris  does  not  recall 
the  burst  of  enthusiasm  that  stirred  the  surface .''  Trochu  be- 
came once  more  popular  ;  even  the  Communistic  or  atheistic 
Journals  refrained  from  complaining  that  he  attended  mass  and 
invited  his  countr\TTien  to  trust  in  a  God.  Ducrot  was  more 
than  popular — he  was  adored. 

The  several  companies  in  which  De  Maul^on  and  Enguer- 
rand  served  departed  towards  their  post  early  on  the  same 
morning,  that  of  the  28th.  All  the  prevous  night,  while 
Enguerrand  was  buried  in  profound  slumber,  Raoul  remained  in 
his  brother's  room,  sometimes  on  his  knees  before  the  ivory  cruci- 
fix which  had  been  their  mother's  last  birthday  gitt  to  her  youngest 
son — sometimes  seated  beside  the  bed  in  profound  and  devout 
meditation.  At  daybreak,  Madame  de  Vandemar  stole  into  the 
chamber.  Unconscious  of  his  brother's  watch,  he  had  asked  her  to 
wake  him  in  good  time,  for  the  young  man  was  a  sound  sleeper. 
Shading  the  candle  she  bore  with  one  hand,  with  the  other  she 
drew  aside  the  curtain  and  looked  at  Enguerrand's  calm,  fair  face, 
its  lips  parted  in  the  happy  smile  which  seemed  to  carry  joy  with 
it  wherever  its  sunshine  played.  Her  tears  fell  noiselessly  on 
her  darling's  cheek  ;  she  then  knelt  down  and  prayed  for  strength. 
As  she  rose,  she  felt  Raoul's  arm  around  her,  they  looked  at 
each  other  in  silence  ;  then  she  bowed  her  head,  and  wakened 
Enguerrand  with  her  lips.  "  Pas  de  quere/le,  mes  afnis,^'  he 
■  murmured,  opening  his  sweet  blue  eyes  drowsily.  "  Ah,  it  was 
a  dream  !  I  thought  Jules  and  Emile  [two  young  friends  of  his] 
were  worrying  each  other  ;  and  you  know,  dear  Raoul,  that  I 
am  the  most  officious  of  peacemakers.  Time  to  rise,  is  it .''  No 
peacemaking  to-day.  Kiss  me  again,  mother,  and  say,  '  Bless 
thee.'" 

"  Bless  thee,  bless  thee,  my  child,"  cried  the  mother,  wrap- 
ping her  arms  passionately  round  him,  and  in  tones  choked 
■with  sobs. 

"  Now   leave  me,  maman.  "  said    Enguerrand,  resorting   to 
the  infantine  ordinary  name,  which  he  had  not  used  for  years 
"  Raoul,  stay  and  help  me  dress.     1  must  be  tres  beau  to-day. 


536 


THE  PARISIANS. 


I  shall  joivi  thee  at  breakfast,  mafnan.     Early  for  such  repast 
but  /'  appetit  vient  en  mangeant.     Mind  the  coffee  is  hot.  " 

Enguerrand,  always  careful  of  each  detail  of  dress,  was 
especially  so  that  morning,  and  especially  gay,  humming  the  old 
air,  "  Partant  pour  la  Syiie.  "  But  his  gayety  was  checked 
when  Raoul,  taking  from  his  breast  a  holy  talisman  which  he 
habitually  wore  there,  suspended  it  with  loving  hands  rounl 
his  brother's  neck.  It  was  a  small  cr}'stal  set  in  Byzantine 
filigree  ;  imbedded  in  it  was  a  small  splinter  of  wood,  said,  by 
pious  tradition,  to  be  a  relic  of  the  Divine  Cross,  It  had  been 
for  centuries  in  the  family  of  the  Contessa  di  Rimini,  and  was 
given  by  her  to  Raoul,  the  only  gift  she  had  ever  made  him,  as 
an  emblem  of  the  sinless  purity  of  the  affection  that  united 
those  two  souls  in  the  bonds  of  the  beautiful  belief. 

"  She  bade  me  transfer  it  to  thee  to-day,  my  brother,  "  said 
Raoul,  simply ;  "  and  now  without  a  pang  I  can  gird  on  thee 
thy  soldier's  sword.  " 

Enguerrand  clasped  his  brother  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  him 
with  passionate  fer\'or.  "  Oh,  Raoul !  how  I  love  thee  !  how 
good  thou  hast  ever  been  to  me  !  how  many  sins  thou  hast 
saved  me  from  !  how  indulgent  thou  hast  been  to  those  from 
which  thou  couldst  not  save !  Think  on  that,  my  brother,  in 
case  we  do  not  meet  again  on  earth.  " 

"  Hush,  hush,  Enguerrand  !  No  gloomy  forebodings  now  ! 
Come,  come  hither,  my  half  of  life,  my  sunny  half  of  life  !  "  and, 
uttering  those  words,  he  led  Enguerrand  towards  the  crucifix, 
and  there,  in  deeper  and  more  solemn  voice,  said,  "  Let  us 
pray.  "  So  the  brothers  knelt  side  by  side,  and  Raoul  prayed 
aloud  as  only  such  souls  can  pray. 

When  they  descended  into  the  salon  where  breakfast  was 
set  out,  they  found  assembled  several  of  their  relations,  and  some 
of  Enguerrand's  young  friends  not  engaged  in  the  sortis.  One 
or  two  of  the  latter,  indeed,  were  disabled  from  fighting  by 
wounds  ii:  former  fields  ;  they  left  their  sickbeds  to  bid  him 
good-by.  Unspeakable  was  the  affection  this  genial  nature 
inspired  in  all  who  came  into  the  circle  of  its  winning  magic ; 
and  when,  tearing  himself  from  them,  he  descended  the  stair, 
ai:d  passed  with  light  steps  through  the  porte-cochere^  there  was 
a  crowd  around  the  house — so  widely  had  his  popularity  spread 
among  even  the  lower  classes,  from  which  the  ^lobiles  in  his 
regiment  were  chiefly  composed.  He  departed  to  the  place  of 
rendezvous  amid  a  chorus  of  exhilarating  cheers. 

Not  thus  lovingly  tended  on,  not  thus  cordially  greeted, 
was  that  equal  idol  of  a  former  generation,  Victor  de  Maule'on. 


THE  PARISIANS.  53,; 

No  pious  friend  prayed  beside  his  couch,  no  loving  kiss  waked 
him  from  his  slumbers.  At  the  gray  of  the  November  dawn 
he  rose  from  a  sleep  which  had  no  smiling  dreams,  with  that 
mysterious  instinct  of  punctual  will  which  cannot  even  go  to 
sleep  without  fixing  beforehand  the  exact  moment  in  which 
sleep  shall  end.  He,  too,  like  Enguerrand,  dressed  himself  with 
care — unlike  Enguerrand,  with  care  strictly  soldier-like.  Then, 
seeing  he  had  some  little  time  jet  before  him,  he  rapidly 
revisited  pigeon-holes  and  drawers,  in  which  might  be  found  by 
prying  eyes  anything  he  would  deny  to  their  curiosity.  All  that 
he  found  of  this  sort  were  some  letters  in  female  handwriting, 
tied  together  with  faded  ribbon,  relics  of  earlier  days,  and 
treasured  througout  later  vicissitudes ;  letters  from  the  English 
girl  to  whom  he  had  briefly  referred  in  his  confession  to 
Louvier, — the  only  girl  he  had  ever  wooed  as  his  wife.  She 
was  the  only  daughter  of  high-born  Roman  Catholics  residing 
at  the  time  of  his  youth  in  Paris.  Reluctantly  they  had  assented 
to  his  proposals  ;  joyfully  they  had  retracted  their  assent  when 
his  affairs  had  become  so  involved  :  yet  possibly  the  motive 
tjiat  led  him  to  his  most  ruinous  excesses — the  gambling  of  the 
turf — had  been  caused  by  the  wild  hope  of  a  nature  then  fatally 
sanguine,  to  retrieve  the  fortune  that  might  suffice  to  satisfy 
the  parents.  But  during  his  permitted  courtship  the  lovers 
had  corresponded.  Her  letters  were  full  of  warm,  if  innocent, 
tenderness — till  came  the  last  cold  farewell.  The  family  had 
long  ago  returned  to  England  ;  he  concluded,  of  course,  that 
she  had  married  another. 

Near  to  these  letters  lay  the  papers  which  had  served  to 
vindicate  his  honor  in  that  old  affair  in  which  the  unsought 
love  of  another  had  brought  on  him  shame  and  affliction.  As 
his  eye  fell  on  the  last,  he  muttered  to  himself,  "  I  kept  these, 
to  clear  my  repute.  Can  I  keep  those,  when,  if  found,  they 
might  compromise  the  repute  of  her  who  might  have  been  my 
tt'fe  had  I  been  worthy  of  her  ?  She  is  doubtless  now  another's  ; 
or,  if  dead — honor  never  dies."  He  pressed  his  lips  to  the 
letters  with  a  passionate,  lingering,  mournful  kiss ;  then,  rak- 
ing up  the  ashes  of  yesterday's  fire,  and  rekindling  them,  he 
placed  thereon  those  leaves  of  a  melancholy  romance  in  his 
past,  and  watched  them,  slowly,  reluctantly,  smoulder  away 
into  tinder.  Then  he  opened  a  drawer  in  which  lay  the  only 
paper  of  a  political  character  which  he  had  preserved.  All 
that  related  to  plots  or  conspiracies  in  which  his  agency  had 
committed  others,  it  was  his  habit  to  destroy  as  soon  as  received. 
For  the  sole  document  thus  treasured  he  alone  was  responsible ; 


538  THE  PARISIANS. 

it  was  an  outline  of  his  ideal  for  the  future  constitution  of 
France,  accompanied  with  elaborate  arguments,  the  heads  of 
which  his  conversation  with  the  Incognito  made  known  to  the 
reader.  Of  the  soundness  of  this  political  programme,  whatever 
its  merits  or  faults  (a  question  on  which  I  presume  no  judg- 
ment), he  had  an  intense  conviction.  He  glanced  rapidly  ovei 
its  contents,  did  not  alter  a  word,  sealed  it  up  in  an  envelope, 
inscribed,  "  My  Legacy  to  my  Countrymen."  The  papers 
refuting  a  calumny  relating  solely  to  himself  he  carried  into  the 
battlefield,  placed  next  to  his  heart, — significant  of  a  French- 
man's love  of  honor  in  this  world — as  the  relic  placed  round 
the  neck  of  Enguerrand  by  his  pious  brother  was  emblematic  of 
the  Christian  hope  of  mercy  in  the  next. 


CHAPTER  XVni. 


The  streets  swarmed  with  the  populace  gazing  on  the  troops 
as  they  passed  to  their  destination.  Among  those  of  the  Mo- 
biles who  especially  caught  the  eye  were  two  companies  in  which 
Enguerrand  de  Vandemar  and  Victor  de  Mauleon  commanded. 
In  the  first  were  many  young  men  of  good  family,  or  in  the 
higher  ranks  of  the  bourgeoisie,  known  to  numerous  lookers-on  ; 
there  was  something  inspiriting  in  their  gay  aspects  and  in  the 
easy  carelessness  of  their  march.  Mixed  with  this  companv, 
however  and  forming  of  course  the  bulk  of  it,  were  those 
who  belonged  to  the  lower  classes  of  the  population  ;  and  though 
they  too  might  seem  gay  to  an  ordinary  observer,  the  gayety  was 
forced.  Many  of  them  were  evidently  not  quite  sober  ;  and 
there  was  a  disordery  want  of  soldiership  in  their  mien  and 
armament  which  inspired  distrust  among  such  vieux  inoustaches 
as,  too  old  for  other  service  than  that  of  the  ramparts,  mixed 
here  and  there  among  the  crowd. 

But  when  De  Mauleon's  company  passed,  the  vieux  mous- 
taches impulsively  touched  each  other.  They  recognized  tjie 
march  of  well-drilled  men,  the  countenances  grave  and  seveie, 
the  eyes  not  looking  on  this  side  and  that  for  admiration,  the 
step  regularly  timed  ;  and  conspicuous  among  these  men  the 
tall  stature  and  calm  front  of  the  leader. 

"  These  fellows  will  fight  well,"  growled  a  vieux  moustache  : 
"  where  did  they  fish  out  their  leader  ?  " 


THE  PARISIANS.  ^^q 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  "  said  a  bourgeois.  "  Victor  de  Mau- 
leon.  He  won  the  cross  in  Algeria  for  bravery.  I  recollect  him 
when  I  was  very  young  ;  the  very  devil  for  won^en  and  fight- 
ing." 

"  I  wish  there  were  more  such  devils  for  fighting  and  fewer 
for  vvomen,"  growled  again  kvieiix  moustache. 

One  incessant  roar  of  cannon  all  the  night  of  the  29th, 
The  populace  had  learned  the  names  of  the  French  cannons, 
and  fancied  they  could  distinguish  the  several  sounds  of  their 
thunder.  "  There  spits  '  Josephine  ! ' "  shouts  an  invalid  sailor, 
"  There  howls  our  own  '  Populace  !  '  "*  cries  a  Red  Republican 
from  Belleville,  "  There  sings  '  Le  Chatiment  !  '  "  laughed 
Gustave  Rameau,  who  was  now  become  an  enthusiastic  admirer 
of  the  Victor  Hugo  he  had  before  affected  to  despise.  And  all 
the  while,  mingled  with  the  roar  of  the  cannon,  came,  far  and 
near,  from  the  streets,  from  the  ramparts,  the  gusts  of  song — 
song  sometimes  heroic,  sometimes  obscene,  more  often  carelessly 
joyous.  The  news  of  General  Vinoy's  success  during  the  early 
part  of  the  day  had  been  damped  by  the  evening  report  of 
Ducrot's  delay  in  crossing  the  swollen  Marne.  But  the  spirits 
of  the  Parisians  rallied  from  a  momentary  depression  on  the 
excitement  at  night  of  that  concert  of  martial  music. 

During  that  night,  close  under  the  guns  of  the  double 
redoubt  of  Gravelle  and  La  Faisanderie,  eight  pontoon-bridges 
were  thrown  over  the  Marne  ;  and  at  daybreak  the  first  column 
of  the  third  army  under  Blanchard  and  Renoult  crossed  with  all 
their  artillery,  and,  covered  by  the  fire  of  the  double  redoubts 
of  the  forts  of  Vincennes,  Nogent,  Rossney,  and  the  batteries 
of  Mont  Avron,  had  an  hour  before  noon  carried  the  village 
of  Chambigny  and  the  first  echelo7i  of  the  important  plateau  of 
Villiers,  and  were  already  commencing  the  work  of  intrench- 
ment,  when,  rallying  from  the  amaze  of  a  defeat,  the  German 
forces  burst  upon  them,  sustained  by  fresh  batteries.  The 
Pi'ussian  pieces  of  artillery  established  at  Chennevieres  and  of 
Neuilly  opened  fire  with  deadly  execution  ;  while  a  numerous 
infantry,  descending  from  the  intrenchments  of  Villiers,  charged 
upon  the  troops  under  Renoult.  Among  the  French  in  that 
strife  were  Engfuerrand  and  the  Mobiles  of  which  he  was  in 
command.  Dismayed  by  the  unexpected  fire,  these  Mobiles 
gave  way,  as  indeed  did  many  of  the  line.  Enguerrand  rushed 
forward  to  the  front — "  On,  mes  enfans.,  on !      What  will  out 

*  The  "  Populace"  had  been  contributed  to  the  artillery,  sou  a  sou  by  the 
woi  king-class 


54° 


THE  PARISIAXS. 


mothers  and  wives  say  of  us  if  we  fly  1  Vive  la  France  /-—On  !  " 
Among  those  of  the  better  class  in  that  company  there  rose  a 
shout  of  applause,  but  it  found  no  spiipathy  among  the  rest. 
They  wavered,  they  turned.  "  Will  you  suffer  me  to  go  on 
alone,  countr\'men  ?  "  cried  Enguerrand  ;  and  alone  he  rushed 
on  towards  the  Prussian  line, —  rushed,  and  fell,  mortally  wound- 
ed by  a  musket-ball.  "  Revenge  !  shouted  some  of  the  foremost : 
•'  Revenge  !  "  shouted  those  in  the  rear  ;  and,  so  shouting,  turned 
on  their  heels  and  fled.  But  ere  they  could  disperse  they 
encountered  the  march,  steadfast  though  rapid,  of  the  troop  led 
by  Victor  de  Mauleon.  "  Poltroons  !  "  he  thundered,  with  the 
sonorous  depth  of  his  strong  voice,  "  halt  and  turn,  or  my  men 
shall  fire  on  you  as  deserters." 

"  Va,  citoyen,'"  said  one  fugitive,  an  officer, — popularly 
elected,  because  he  was  the  loudest  brawler  in  the  club  of  the 
Salle  Favre, — we  have  seen  him  before — Charles,  the  brother 
of  Annand  Monnier  — "  men  can't  fight  when  they  despise  their 
generals.  It  is  our  generals  who  are  poltroons  and  fools 
both." 

"  Carry  my  answer  to  the  ghosts  of  cowards,"  cried  De  Mau- 
leon, and  shot  the  man  dead. 

His  followers,  startled  and  cowed  by  the  deed,  and  by  the 
voice  and  the  look  of  the  death-giver,  halted.  The  officers, 
who  had  at  first  yielded  to  the  panic  of  their  men,  took  fresh 
courage,  and  finally  led  the  bulk  of  the  troop  back  to  their  post: 
"  cnleves  a  la  baionette,''^  to  use  the  phrase  of  a  candid  historian 
of  that  day. 

Day,  on  the  whole,  not  inglorious  to  France.  It  was  the 
first,  if  it  was  the  last,  really  important  success  of  the  besieged. 
They  remained  masters  of  the  ground,  the  Prussians  leaving  to 
them  the  wounded  and  the  dead. 

That  night  what  crowds  thronged  from  Paris  to  the  top  of 
the  Montmartre  heights,  from  the  obser\'atory  on  which  the  cele- 
ebrated  inventor  Bazin  had  lighted  up,  with  some  magical 
electric  machine,  all  the  plain  of  Gennevilliers  from  Mont  Val- 
^rien  to  the  Fort  de  la  Briche  !  The  splendor  of  the  blaze 
wrapped  the  great  city  ; — distinctly  above  the  roofs  of  the  houses 
soared  the  Dome  des  Invalides,  the  spires  of  Notre  Dame,  the 
giant  turrets  of  the  Tuileries  ; — and  died  away  on  resting  on 
the  infames  scapulas  Acroceraunia,  the  "  thunder  crags"  of  the 
heights  occupied  by  the  invading  army. 

Lemercier,  De  Brezd,  and  the  elder  Rameau — who,  despite 
h'«  peaceful  habits  and  gray  hairs,  insisted  on  joining  the  aid 
of  la patrie — were   among  the   National  Guards   attached  to  the 


THE  PARISIANS. 


541 


Fort  de  la  Briche  and  the  neighboring  emincTice,  and  they  met 
in  conversation. 

"  What  a  victory  we  Iiave  had  !  "  said  the  old  Rameau. 

"  Ratlier  mortifying  to  your  son,  M.  Rameau,"  said  Lemer- 
cier. 

'*  Mortifying  to  my  son,  sir  ! — the  victory  of  his  countrymen. 
What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  had  the  honor  to  hear  M.  Gustave  the  other  night  at  the 
club  de  la  VengeanceT 

"  Bon  Dieu  I  do  you  frequent  those  tragic  reunions  ?  "  asked 
De  Brdzd. 

"  They  are  not  at  all  tragic  :  they  are  the  only  comedies 
left  us,  as  one  must  amuse  one's  self  somewhere,  and  the  club 
de  la  Vengeance  is  the  prettiest  thing  of  the  sort  going.  I  quite 
understand  why  it  should  fascinate  a  poet  like  your  son,  M. 
Rameau.  It  is  held  in  a  salle  de  cafe  chantant — style  Louis 
Quinze — decorated  with  a  pastoral  scene  from  Watteau.  I  and 
my  dog  Fox  drop  in.  We  hear  your  son  haranguing.  In  what 
poetical  sentences  he  despaired  of  the  republic  !  The  govern- 
ment (he  called  them  les  charletans  de  l'  Hotel  de  Villi)  were  im- 
beciles. They  pretended  to  inaugurate  a  revolution,  and  did 
not  employ  the  most  obvious  of  revolutionary  means.  There 
Fox  and  I  pricked  up  our  ears  :  what  were  those  means  ?  Your 
son  proceeded  to  explain  :  '  All  mankind  were  to  be  appealed 
to  against  individual  interests.  The  commerce  of  luxury  was  to 
be  abolished  :  clearly  luxury  was  not  at  the  command  of  all 
mankind.  Cafes  and  theatres  were  to  be  closed  forever — all 
mankind  could  not  go  to  cafes  and  theatres.  It  was  idle  to  ex- 
pect the  masses  to  combine  for  anything  in  which  the  masses 
had  not  an  interest  in  common.  The  masses  had  no  interest  in 
any  property  that  did  not  belong  to  the  masses.  Programmes 
of  the  society  to  be  founded,  called  the  Ligue  Cosmopohte  Dem- 
ocratique.  should  be  sent  at  once  into  all  the  States  of  the  civil- 
ized world— how  ?  by  balloons.  Money  corrupts  the  world  as 
now  composed  ;  but  the  money  at  the  command  of  the  masses 
could  buy  all  the  monarchs  and  courtiers  and  priests  of  the 
universe.'  At  that  sentiment,  vehemently  delivered,  ±e  ap- 
plauses were  frantic,  and  Fox  in  his  excitement  began  to  bark. 
At  the  sound  of  his  bark  one  man  cried  out,  '  That's  a  Prussian  ! ' 
another,  'Down  with  the  spy!'  another,  'There's  an  arisfd' 
present — he  keeps  alive  a  dog  which  would  be  a  week's  meal 
for  a  family  !  '  I  snatch  up  Fox  at  the  last  cry,  and  clasp  him 
to  a  bosom  protected  by  the  uniform  of  the  National  Guard. 

"  When   the   hubbub  had   subsided,  your  son,  M.  Ram-sau 


542  THE  PARISIANS. 

prooeeded,  quitting  mankind  in  general,  and  arriving  at  the 
question  in  particular  most  interesting  to  his  audience — the 
mobilization  of  the  National  Guard ;  that  is,  the  call  upon  men 
who  like  talking  and  hate  fighting  to  talk  less  and  fight  more, 
'  It  was  the  sheerest  tyranny  to  select  a  certain  number  of  free 
citizens  to  be  butchered.  If  the  fight  was  for  the  mass,  there 
ought  to  be  la  hvce  en  masse.  If  one  did  not  compel  everybody 
to  fight,  why  should  anybody  fight  ? '  Here  the  applause  agrin 
became  vehement,  and  Fox  again  became  indiscreet.  I  sub- 
dued Fox's  bark  int.-  a  squeak  by  pulling  his  ears.  '  What ! ' 
cries  your  poet-son,  ^  la  levee  en  masse  gives  us  fifteen  million  of 
soldiers,  with  which  we  could  crush,  not  Prussia  alone,  but  the 
whole  of  Europe.  (Immense  sensation.)  Let  us,  then,  resolve 
that  the  charletans  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  are  incapable  of  deliv- 
ering us  from  the  Prussians  ;  that  they  are  deposed  ;  that  the 
Ligue  of  the  'Democratic  Cosmopolite  is  installed  ;  that  meanwhile 
the  Commune  shall  be  voted  the  Provisional  govfemment,  and 
shall  order  the  Prussians  to  retire  within  three  days  from  the 
soil  of  Paris.' 

"Pardon  me  this  long  description,  my  dear  M.  Rameau  ;  but 
I  trust  I  have  satisfactorily  explained  why  victory  obtained  in 
the  teeth  of  his  eloquent  opinions,  if  gratifying  to  him  as  a 
Frenchman,  must  be  mortifying  to  him  as  a  politician." 

The  old  Rameau  sighed,  hung  his  head,  and  crept  away. 

While,  amid  this  holiday  illumination,  the  Parisians  enjoyed 
the  panorama  before  them,  the  Freres  Chretiens  and  the  atten- 
dants of  the  various  ambulances  were  moving  along  the  battle- 
plains  ;  the  first  in  their  large-brimmed  hats  and  sable  garbs, 
the  last  in  strange  motley  costume,  many  of  them  in  glittering 
uniform, — all  alike  in  their  serene  indifference  to  danger  ;  often 
pausing  to  pick  up  among  the  dead  their  own  brethren  who  had 
been  slaughtered  in  the  midst  of  their  task.  Now  and  then 
they  came  on  sinister  forms  apparently  engaged  in  the  same 
duty  of  attending  the  wounded  and  dead,  but  in  truth  murder- 
ous plunderers,  to  whom  the  dead  and  the  dying  were  equal 
harv-ests.  Did  the  wounded  man  attempt  to  resist  the  fou. 
hands  searching  for  their  spoil,  they  added  another  wound  moie 
immediately  mortal,  grinning  as  they  completed  on  the  dead  the 
n;bbery  they  had  commenced  on  the  dying. 

Raoul  de  Vandemar  had  been  all  the  earlier  part  of  the  day 
with  the  assistants  of  the  ambulance  over  which  he  presided, 
attached  to  the  battalions  of  the  National  Guard  in  a  quartet 
remote  from  that  in  which  his  brother  had  fought  and  fallen. 
When   those   troops,  later  in   the   day,  were   driven   from  the 


THE  PARISIANS. 


543 


Montm^dy  plateau,  which  they  had  at  first  carried,  Raoul  liad  re- 
passed towards  the  phiteau  at  ViUiers,  on  which  the  dead  lay 
thickest.  On  the  way  he  heard  a  vague  report  of  the  panic 
which  had  dispersed  the  Mobiles  of  whom  Enguerrand  was  in 
command,  and  of  Enguerrand's  vain  attempt  to  inspirit  thent. 
But  his  fate  was  not  known. 

There,  at  midnight,  Raoul  is  still  searching  among  the 
ghastly  heaps  and  pools  of  blood,  lighted  from  afar  by  the  blaze 
from  the  observatory  of  Montmartre,  and  more  near  at  hand  by 
the  bivouac-fires  extended  along  the  banks  to  the  left  of  the 
Marne,  while  everywhere  about  the  field  flitted  the  lanterns  of 
the  Freres  Chretiens.  Suddenly,  in  the  dimness  of  a  spot  cast 
into  shadow  by  an  incompleted  earthwork,  he  observed  a  small 
sinister  figure  perched  on  the  breast  of  some  wounded  soldier, 
evidently  not  to  succor.  He  sprang  forward  and  seized  a  hid- 
eous-looking urchin,  scarcely  twelve  years  old,  who  held  in  one 
hand  a  small  crystal  locket,  set  in  filigree  gold,  torn  from  the 
soldier's  breast,  and  lifted  high  in  the  other  a  long  case-knife. 
At  a  glance  Raoul  recognized  the  holy  relic  he  had  given  to 
Enguerrand,  and,  flinging  the  precocious  murderer  to  be  seized 
by  his  assistants,  he  cast  himself  beside  his  brother.  Enguer- 
rand still  breathed,  and  his  languid  eyes  brightened  as  he  knew 
the  dear  familiar  face.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  his  voice  failed, 
and  he  shook  his  head  sadly,  but  still  with  a  faint  smile  on 
his  lips.  They  lifted  him  tenderly,  and  placed  him  on  a  litter. 
The  movement,  gentle  as  it  was,  brought  back  pain,  and  with 
the  pain  strength  to  mutter,  "  My  mother — I  would  see  her 
once  more." 

As  at  daybreak  the  loungers  on  Montmartre  and  the  ram- 
parts descended  into  the  streets — most  windows  in  which  were 
open,  as  they  had  been  all  night,  with  anxious  female  faces 
peering  palely  down — they  saw  the  conveyance  of  the  ambu- 
lances coming  dismally  along,  and  many  an  eye  turned  wistfully 
towards  the  litter  on  which  lay  the  idol  of  the  pleasure-loving 
Paris,  with  the  dark  bareheaded  figure  walking  beside  it, — • 
on  .vards,  onwards,  till  it  reached  the  Hotel  de  Vandemar,  and 
a  woman's  cry  was  heard  at  the  entrance  —  the  motlier'i 
cry,  "  My  son !  my  son  !  " 


S44 


THE  PARISIANS,' 


BOOK  XII. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  last  book  closed  with  the  success  of  the  Parisian  sortie 
on  the  5'oth  of  November,  to  be  followed  by  the  terrible  engage- 
ments, no  less  honorable  to  French  valor,  on  the  2d  of 
December.  There  was  the  sanguine  belief  that  deliverance 
was  at  hand  ;  that  Trochu  would  break  through  the  circle  of 
iron  and  effect  that  junction  with  the  army  of  Aurelles  de 
Paladine  which  would  compel  the  Germans  to  raise  the  invest- 
ment ; — belief  rudely  shaken  by  Ducrot's  proclamation  of  the 
4th  to  explain  the  recrossing  of  the  Marne  and  the  abandon- 
ment of  the  positions  conquered,  but  not  altogether  dispelled 
till  Von  Moltke's  letter  to  Trochu  on  the  5th  announcing  the 
defeat  of  the  army  of  the  Loire  and  the  recapture  of  Orleans. 
Even  then  the  Parisians  did  not  lose  hope  of  succor ;  and  even 
after  the  desperate  and  fruitless  sortie  against  Le  Bourget  on 
the  2ist,  it  was  not  without  witticisms  on  defeat  and  predictions 
of  triumph  that  Winter  and  Famine  settled  sullenly  on  the 
city. 

Our  narrative  reopens  with  the  last  period  of  the  siege. 

It  was  during  these  dreadful  days,  that  if  the  vilest  and  the 
most  li.'deous  aspects  of  the  Parisian  population  showed  them- 
selves at  the  worst,  so  all  its  loveliest,  its  noblest,  its  holiest 
characteristics — unnoticed  by  ordinary  observers  in  the  pros- 
perous days  of  the  capital — became  conspicuously  prominent. 
The  higher  classes,  including  the  remnant  of  the  old  noblesse, 
had  during  the  whole  siege  exhibited  qualities  in  noble  con- 
trast to  tliDse  assigned  them  by  the  enemies  of  aristocracy.  Their 
sons  had  been  foremost  among  those  soldiers  who  never  calum- 
niated a  leader,  never  fled  before  a  foe  ;  their  women  had  been 
among  the  most  zealous  and  the  most  tender  nurses  of  the  ambu- 
lances they  had  founded  and  served  ;  their  houses  had  been  freely 
opened,  whether  to  the  families  exiled  from  the  suburbs,  or  in 


THE  PARISIANS. 


545 


supplement  to  the  hospitals.  The  amount  of  relief  they 
afforded  unostentatiously,  out  of  means  that  shared  the  general 
failure  of  accustomed  resource  when  the  famine  commenced, 
would  be  scarcely  credible  if  stated.  Admirable,  too,  were  the 
fortitude  and  resignation  of  the  genuine  Parisian  bourgeoisie-^ 
the  thrifty  tradesfolk  and  small  rentiers — that  class  in  which,  to 
judge  of  its  timidity  when  opposed  to  a  mob,  courage  is  not 
the  most  conspicuous  virtue.  Courage  became  so  now — courage 
to  bear  hourly  increasing  privation,  and  to  suppress  every 
murmur  of  suffering  that  would  discredit  their  patriotism  and 
invoke  "  peace  at  any  price."  It  was  on  this  class  that  the 
calamities  of  the  siege  now  pressed  the  most  heavily.  The 
stagnation  of  trade,  and  the  stoppage  of  the  rents,  in  which 
they  had  invested  their  savings,  reduced  many  of  them  to 
actual  want.  Those  only  of  their  number  who  obtained  the 
pay  of  one  and  a  half  franc  a  day  as  National  Guards,  could  be 
sure  to  escape  from  starvation.  But  this  pay  had  already  be- 
gun to  demoralize  the  receivers.  Scanty  for  supply  of  food,  it 
was  ample  for  supply  of  drink.  And  drunkenness,  hitherto  rare 
in  that  rank  of  the  Parisians,  became  a  prevalent  vice,  aggravated 
in  the  case  of  a  National  Guard  when  it  wholly  unfitted  him  for 
the  duties  he  undertook,  especially  such  National  Guards  as 
were  raised  from  the  most  turbulent  democracy  of  the  working- 
class. 

But  of  all  that  population  there  were  two  sections  in  which 
the  most  beautiful  elements  of  our  human  nature  were  most 
touchingly  manifest — the  women  and  the  priesthood,  including 
in  the  latter  denomination  all  the  various  brotherhoods  and 
societies  which  religion  formed  and  inspired. 

It  was  on  the  27  th  of  December  that  Frederic  Lemercier 
stood  gazing  wistfully  on  a  military  report  affixed  to  a  blank 
wall,  which  stated  that  "  the  enemy,  worn  out  by  a  resistance 
of  over  one  hundred  days,"  had  commenced  the  bombardment. 
Poor  Frederic  was  sadly  altered  ;  he  had  escaped  the  Prussian 
guns,  but  not  the  Parisian  winter — the  severest  known  for 
twenty  years.  He  was  one  of  the  many  frozen  at  their  posts — 
brought  back  to  the  ambulance  with  Fox  in  his  bosom  trying  to 
keep  him  warm.  He  had  only  lately  been  sent  forth  as  con- 
valescent,— ambulances  were  too  crowded  to  retain  a  patient 
longer  than  absolutely  needful, — and  had  been  hunger-pinched 
and  frost-pinched  ever  since.  The  luxurious  Frederic  had  still, 
somewhere  or  other,  a  capital  yielding  above  three  thousand  a 
year,  and  of  which  he  could  not  now  realize  a  franc,  the  title 
deeds  to  various  investment's  being  in  the  hands  of  Duplessis 


-  ^5  '^^^  PARISIANS. 

— tlie  most  trustworthy  of  friends,  the  most  upright  of  men,  but 
who  was  in  Bretagnc  and  could  not  be  got  at.  And  the  time 
had  come  at  Paris  when  you  could  not  get  trust  for  a  pound  of 
horse-flesh  or  a  daily  supply  of  fuel.  And  Frederic  Lemercier, 
who  had  long  since  spent  the  two  thousand  francs  borrowed 
from  Alain  (not  ignobly,  but  somewhat  ostentatiously,  in  feast- 
ing any  acquaintance  who  wanted  a  feast),  and  who  had  sold 
to  any  one  who  could  afford  to  speculate  on  such  dainty 
luxuries,  clocks,  bronzes,  amber-mouthed  pipes, — all  that  had 
made  the  envied  garniture  of  his  bachelor's  apartment, — 
Frederic  Lemercier  was,  so  far  as  concerned  the  task  of  keep- 
ing body  and  soul  together,  worse  off  than  any  English  pauper 
who  can  apply  to  the  Union.  Of  course  he  might  have  claimed 
his  half-pay  of  their  sous  as  a  National  Guard.  _  But  he  little 
knows  the  true  Parisian  who  imagines  a  seigneur  of  the 
Chaussee  d'  Antin,  the  oracle  of  those  with  whom  he  lived,  and 
one  who  knew  life  so  well  that  he  had  preached  priKlence  to  a 
seigneur  of  the  faubourg  like  Alain  de  Rochebriant,  stooping 
to  apply  for  the  wages  of  thirty  sous.  Rations  were  only 
obtained  by  the  wonderful  patience  of  women  who  had  chil- 
dren, to  whom  they  were  both  saints  and  martyrs.  The  hours, 
the  weary  hours,  one  had  to  wait  before  one  could  get  one's 
place  on  the  line  for  the  distribution  of  that  atrocious  black 
bread  defeated  men, — defeated  most  wives  if  only  for  husbands, 
— were  defied  only  by  mothers  and  daughters.  Literally 
speaking,  Lemercier  was  starving.  Alain  had  been  badly 
wounded  in  the  sortie  of  the  21st,  and  was  laid  up  in  an  ambu- 
lance. Even  if  he  could  have  been  got  at,  he  had  probably 
nothing  left  to  bestow  upon  Lemercier. 

Lemercier  gazed  on  the  announcement  of  the  bombard- 
ment, and,  the  Parisian  gayety,  which  some  French  historian  of 
the  siege  calls  douce  philosophic,  lingering  on  him  still,  he  said 
audibly,  turning  round  to  any  stranger  who  heard,  "  Happiest 
of  mortals  that  we  are  !  Under  the  present  government  we 
ai  -i  never  warned  of  anything  disagreeable  that  can  happen  ; 
we  are  only  told  of  it  when  it  has  happened,  and  then  as  rather 
pleasant  than  otherwise.  I  get  up.  I  meet  a  civil  gendarme. 
'  What  is  that  firing  ?  which  of  our  provincial  armies  is  taking 
Prussia  in  the  rear  t '  '  Monsieur,'  says  the  gendarme,  '  it  is 
the  Prussian  Krupp  guns.'  I  look  at  the  proclamation,  and 
my  fears  vanish, — my  heart  is  relieved.  I  read  that  the  bom- 
bardment is  a  sure  sign  that  the  enemy  is  worn  out." 

Some  of  the  men  grouped  round  Frederic  ducked  their 
heads  in  terror;  others,  who  knew  that  the  thunderbolt  launched 


THE  PARISIANS. 


547 


from  the  plateau  of  Avron  would  not  fall  on  the  pavements  of 
Paris,  laughed  and  joked.  But  in  front,  with  no  sign  of  terror, 
no  sound  of  laughter,  stretched,  movirg  inch  by  inch,  the 
female  procession  towards  the  bakery  in  which  the  morsel  oi 
bread  for  their  infants  was  doled  out, 

"  Hist,  tnon  ami,''  said  a  deep  voice  beside  Lemercier. 
*'  Look  at  those  women,  and  do  not  wound  their  ears  by  a  jest." 

Lemercier,  offended  by  that  rebuke,  though  too  susceptible 
to  good  e^iotions  not  to  recognize  its  justice,  tried  with  feeble 
fingers  to  turn  up  his  moustache,  and  to  turn  a  defiant  crest 
upon  the  rebuker.  He  was  rather  startled  to  see  the  tall  mar- 
tial form  at  his  side,  and  to  recognize  Victor  de  Mauleon, 
"  Don't  you  think,  M.  Lemercier,"  resumed  the  Vicomte,  half 
sadly,  "  that  these  women  are  worthy  of  better  husbands  and 
sons  than  are  commonly  found  among  the  soldiers  whose  uniform 
we  wear  ? " 

"  The  National  Guard  !  You  ought  not  to  sneer  at  them, 
Vicomte, — you  whose  troop  covered  itself  with  glory  on  the 
great  days  of  Villiers  and  Champigny, — you  in  whose  praise 
even  the  grumblers  of  Paris  became  eloquent,  and  in  whom  a 
future  Marshal  of  France  is  foretold." 

"  But,  alas  !  more  than  half  of  my  poor  troop  was  left  on 
the  battle-field,  oris  now  wrestling  for  mangled  remains  of  life 
in  the  ambulances.  And  the  new  recruits  with  whom  I  tcok 
the  field  on  the  21st  are  not  likely  to  cover  themselves  with 
glory,  or  insure  to  their  commander  the  baton  of  a  marshal." 

''  Ay,  I  heard  when  I  was  in  the  hospital  that  you  had  pub- 
licly shamed  some  of  these  recruits,  and  declared  that  you 
would  rather  resign  than  lead  them  again  to  battle." 

"  True  ;  and  at  this  moment,  for  so  doing,  I  am  the  man 
most  hated  by  the  rabble  who  supplied  those  recruits." 

The  men,  while  thus  conversing,  had  moved  slowly,  on,  and 
were  now  in  front  of  a  large  caje,  from  the  interior  of  which 
came  the  sound  of  loud  bravos  and  clappings  of  hands.  Lemer- 
cier's  curiosity  was  excited.  "  For  what  can  be  that  applause  ?  " 
he  said  ;  "  let  us  look  in  and  see." 

The  room  was  thronged.  In  the  distance,  on  a  small  raised 
platform,  stood  a  girl  dressed  in  faded  theatrical  finery,  mak- 
ing her  obeisance  to  the  crowd. 

"  Heavens  !  "  exclaimed  Frederic — "  can  I  trust  my  eyes  ? 
Surely  that  is  the   once  superb  Julie  :  has  she  been  dancing 

here  ?  " 

One  of  the  loungers,  evidently  belonging  to  the  same  world 
ds  Lemerc  ier,  overboard  the   question,  and  answered  pcilitely  • 


548 


THE  PARISIANS. 


"  No,  Monsieur :  she  has  been  reciting  verses,  and  really  de" 
claims  ver}-  well,  considering  it  is  not  her  vocation.  She  has 
given  us  extracts  from  Victor  Hugo  and  De  Musset,  and 
crowned  all  with  a  patriotic  hynui  by  Gustave  Rameau, — her 
old  lover,  if  gossip  be  true." 

Meanwhile,  De  ^Mauleon,  who  at  first  had  glanced  over  the 
scene  with  his  usual  air  of  calm  and  cold  indifference,  became 
suddenly  struck  by  the  girl's  beautiful  face,  and  gazed  on  i+ 
with  a  look  of  startled  surprise. 

"  Who  and  what  did  you  say  that  poor  fair  creature  is,  M 
Lemercier  ?  " 

"  She  is  a  Mademoiselle  Julie  Caumartin,  and  was  a  very 
popular  coryphee.  She  has  hereditary  right  to  be  a  good  dancer, 
as  the  daughter  of  a  once  more  famous  ornament  of  the  ballet, 
la  belle  Leonie — whom  you  must  have  seen  in  your  young  days.' 

"  Of  course.  Le'onie — she  married  a  M.  Surville,  a  sill} 
bourgeois  gentilhomtne,  who  earned  the  hatred  of  Paris  by  taking 
her  off  the  stage.  So  that  is  her  daughter !  I  see  no  likeness 
to  her  mother — much  handsomer.  Why  does  she  call  herself 
Caumartin  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Frederic,  "  a  melancholy  but  trite  story.  Leonie 
was  left  a  widow,  and  died  in  want.  What  could  the  poor 
young  daughter  do  .''  She  found  a  rich  protector  who  had  in- 
fluence to  get  her  an  appointment  in  the  ballet ;  and  there  she 
did  as  most  girls  so  circumstanced  do — appeared  under  an  as- 
sumed name,  which  she  has  since  kept." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Victor,  compassionately.  "  Poor 
thing !  she  has  quitted  the  platform,  and  is  coming  this  way 
evidently  to  speak  to  you.  I  saw  her  eyes  brighten  as  she 
caught  sight  of  your  face." 

Lemercier  attempted  a  languid  air  of  modest  self-complacency 
as  the  girl  now  approached  him.  "  Bo7i-jour.^  M.  Frederic  ! 
Ah.,  moji  Dieu  I  how  thin  you  have  grown  !  You  have  been 
ill?" 

"  The  hardships  of  a  military  life,  Mademoiselle  !  Ah  for 
the  beaux  jours  and  the  peace  we  insisted  on  destroying  under 
the  Empire  which  we  destroyed  for  listening  to  us  !  But  you 
tiirive  well,  I  trust.  I  have  seen  you  better  dressed,  but  never 
in  greater  beauty." 

The  girl  blushed  as  she  replied,  "  Do  you  really  think  as 
you  speak  ? " 

"  I  could  not  speak  more  sincerely  if  I  lived  in  the  legend- 
ary House  of  Glass." 


THE  PARISIANS.  5  45 

The  girl  clutched  his  arm,  and  said,  in  suppressed  tones, 
"  Where  is  Gustave  ?  " 

"  Gustave  Rameau  ?  I  have  no  idea.  Do  you  never  see 
him  now  ?  " 

"  Never, — perhaps  I  shall  never  see  him  again  ;  but  when 
you  do  meet  him,  say  that  Julie  owes  to  him  her  livelihood. 
An  honest  livelihood,  Monsieur.  He  taught  her  to  love  verses 
— told  her  how  to  recite  them.  I  am  engaged  at  this  cafe' — 
you  will  find  me  here  the  same  hour  every  day,  in  case — in  case. 
— You  are  good  and  kind,  and  will  come  and  tell  me  that  Gus- 
tave is  well  and  happy,  even  if  he  forgets  me.  Au  revoir  !  Stop  ; 
you  do  look,  my  poor  Frederic,  as  if — as  if — pardon  me,  Mon- 
sieur Leniercier,  is  there  anything  I  can  do .-'  Will  you  conde- 
scend to  borrow  from  me  .-•     I  am  in  funds." 

Lemercier  at  that  offer  was  nearly  moved  to  tears.  Famished 
though  he  was,  he  could  not,  however,  have  touched  that  girl's 
earnings. 

"  You  are  an  angel  of  goodness,  Mademoiselle  !  Ah,  how 
I  envy  Gustave  Rameau  !  No,  I  don't  want  aid.  I  am  always 
a — renfiery 

'•'•  Bien  !  and  if  you  see  Gustave,  you  will  not  forget." 

"  Rely  on  me.  Come  away,"  he  said  to  De  Maule'on.  "  I 
don't  want  to  hear  that  girl  repeat  the  sort  of  bombast  the 
poets  indite  nowdays.  It  is  fustian  ;  and  that  girl  may  have 
a  brain  of  feather,  but  she  has  a  heart  of  gold." 

"  True,"  said  Victor,  as  they  regained  the  street.  "  I  over- 
heard what  she  said  to  you.  What  an  incomprehensible  thing 
is  a  woman  !  how  more  incomprehensible  still  is  a  woman's 
love  !  Ah,  pardon  me.  I  must  leave  you ;  I  see  in  the  proces- 
sion a  poor  woman  known  to  me  in  better  days." 

De  Mauleon  walked  toward  the  woman  he  spoke  of — one 
of  the  long  procession  to  the  bakery — a  child  clinging  to  her 
robe.  A  pale,  grief-worn  woman,  still  young,  but  with  the 
weariness  of  age  on  her  face,  and  the  shadow  of  death  on  her 
child's. 

"  I  think  I  see  Madame  Monnier,"  said  De  Mauleon,  softly. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  drearily.  A  year  ago,  she 
would  have  blushed  if  addressed  by  a  stranger  in  a  name  not 
lawfully  hers. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  in  hollow  accents  broken  by  a  cough,  "  I 
don't  know  vou,  Monsieur." 

"  Poor  woman  !  "  he  resumed,  walking  beside  her  as  she 
moved  slowly  on,  while  the  eyes  of    other  women    in    the    pro- 


550  THE  PARrSIJTNS. 

cession  stared  at  him  hungrily.  "  And  your  child  looks  ill 
too.     It  is  your  youngest  ?  " 

"  My  only  one  !  The  others  are  in  Pere  la  Chaise.  There 
arc  but  few  children  alive  in  my  street  now.  God  has  been  very 
merciful,  and  taken  them  to  himself." 

De  Mauleon  recalled  the  scene  of  a  neat  c^omfortable 
apartment,  and  the  healthful  happy  children  at  piay  on  the 
floor.  The  mortality  among  the  little  ones,  espec.ally  in  the 
quartier  occupied  by  the  working-classes,  had  of  late  been  ter- 
rible. The  want  of  food,  of  fuel,  the  intense  severity  of  the 
weather,  had  swept  them  off  as  by  a  pestilence. 

"  And  Monnier — what  of  him  ?  No  doubt  he  is  a  National 
Guard,  and  has  his  pay  1  " 

The  woman  made  no  answer,  but  hung  down  her  head. 
She  was  stifling  a  sob.  Till  then  her  eyes  seemed  to  have  ex- 
hausted the  last  source  of  tears. 

"  He  lives  still  ?  "  continued  Victor,  pityingly  :  "  he  is  not 
wounded  ?  " 

"  No :  he  is  weU — in  health.  Thank  you  kindly,  Mon- 
sieur." 

"  But  his  pay  is  not  enough  to  help  you,  and  of  course  he 
can  get  no  work.  Excuse  me  if  I  stopped  you.  It  is  because 
I  owed  Armand  Monnier  a  little  debt  for  work,  and  I  am 
ashamed  to  say  that  it  quite  escaped  my  memory  in  these  ter- 
rible events.  Allow  me,  Madame,  to  pay  it  to  you."  And  he 
thrust  his  purse  into  her  hand.  ''  I  think  this  contains  about 
the  sum  I  owed  ;  if  more  or  less,  we  will  settle  the  difference 
later.     Take  care  of  yourself." 

He  was  turning  away,  when  the  woman  caught  hold  of 
him. 

"  Stay,  Monsieur.  May  heaven  bless  you  ! — but — but — 
tell  me  what  name  I  am  to  give  Armand.  I  can't  think  of  any 
one  who  owed  him  money.  It  must  have  been  before  that 
dreadful  strike,  the  beginning  of  all  our  woes.  Ah,  if  it  were 
allowed  to  curse  any  one,  I  fear  my  last  breath  would  not  be  a 
j:  aver." 

"  You  would  curse  the  strike,  or  the  master  who  did  not 
forg-ve  Armand's  share  in  it  ?" 

"  No,  no, — the  cruel  man  who  talked  him  into  it — into  all 
that  has  changed  the  best  workman,  the  kindest  heart — the — • 
the "     Again  her  voice  died  in  sobs. 

"  And  who  was  that  man  ?  "  asked  De  Mauleon,  falteringly. 

"  His  name  was  Lcbeau.  If  you  were  a  poor  man,  1  should 
say,  '  Shun  liim.'  " 


THE  PARISIANS.  551 

''  I  have  heard  of  the  name  you  mention  ;  but  if  we  mean 
the  same  person,  Monnier  cannot  have  met  him  lately.  He  has 
not  been  in  Paris  since  the  siege." 

"  I  suppose  not,  the  coward  !  He  ruined  us — us  who  were 
so  happy  before — and  then,  as  Armand  says,  cast  us  away  as 
instruments  he  had  done  with.  But — but  if  you  do  know  hiKij 
and  do  see  him  again,  tell  him — tell  him  not  to  complete  his 
wrong — not  to  bring  murder  on  Armand's  soul.  For  Armand 
isn't  what  he  was — and  has  become,  oh,  so  violent !  I  dare 
not  take  this  money  without  saying  who  gave  it.  He  would 
not  take  money  as  alms  from  an  aristocrat.  Hush  !  he  beat 
me  for  taking  money  from  the  good  Monsieur  Raoul  de  Van- 
demar — my  poor  Armand  beat  me  !  " 

De  Maule'on  shuddered.  "  Say  that  it  is  from  a  customer 
whose   rooms   he    decorated  in  his  spare    hours   on  his   own 

account  before  the  strike, — Monsieur ;  "  here  he  uttered 

indistinctly  some  unpronounceable  name,  and  hurried  off,  soon 
lost  as  the  streets  grew  darker.  Amid  groups  of  a  higher 
order  of  men — militaiy  men,  wo\A^%,  ci-devant  deputies — among 
such  ones  his  name  stood  very  high.  Not  only  his  bravery  in 
the  recent  sorties  had  been  signal,  but  a  strong  belief  in  his 
military  talents  had  become  prevalent ;  and  conjoined  with  the 
name  he  had  before  established  as  a  political  writer,  and  the 
remembrance  of  the  vigor  and  sagacity  with  which  he  had  op- 
posed the  war,  he  seemed  certain  when  peace  and  order  be- 
came re-established,  of  a  brilliant  position  and  career  in  a  fu- 
ture administration, — not  less  because  he  had  steadfastly  kept 
aloof  from  the  existing  government,  which  it  was  rumored, 
rightly  or  erroneously,  that  he  had  been  solicited  to  join,  and 
from  every  combination  of  the  various  democratic  or  discon- 
tented factions. 

Quitting  these  more  distinguished  associates,  he  took  his 
way  alone  towards  the  ramparts.  The  day  was  closing  ;  the 
thunders  of  the  cannon  were  dying  down. 

He  passed  by  a  wine-shop  round  which  were  gathered  many 
of  the  worst  specimens  of  the  Afoblots  and  National  Guards, 
mostly  drunk,  and  loudly  talking,  in  vehement  abuse  of  gen- 
erals and  officers  and  commissariat.  By  one  of  the  men,  as 
he  came  under  the  glare  of  a  petroleum  lamp  (  there  was  gas 
no  longer  in  the  dismal  city),  he  was  recognized  as  the  comman- 
der who  had  dared  to  insist  on  discipline  and  disgrace  honest 
patriots  who  claimed  to  themselves  the  sole  option  between 
fight  and  flight.  The  man  was  one  of  those  patriots — one  of 
the  new  recruits  whom  Victor  had  shamed  and  dismissed  foi 


552  THE  PARISIANS. 

mutiny  and  cowardice.  He  made  a  drunken  plunge  at  his 
former  chief,  shouting  "  A  bas  rarisio  !  Comrades,  this  is  the 
coquin  De  Mauldon  who  is  paid  by  the  Prussians  for  getting  us 
killed  :  a  la  lantcnic  !  "'  "  A  la  laiiterne  !  "  stammered  and  hio 
coughed  others  of  the  group  ;  but  they  did  not  stir  to  execute 
their  threat.  Dimly  seen  as  the  stern  face  and  sinewy  form 
of  the  threatened  man  was  by  their  drowsied  eyes,  the  name 
of  De  Mauleon,  the  man  without  fear  of  a  foe  and  without  ruth 
for  a  mutineer,  sufficed  to  protect  him  from  outrage  ;  and  with 
a  slight  movement  of  his  arm  that  sent  his  denouncer  reeling 
against  the  lamp-post,  De  Mauleon  passed  on  : — when  another 
man,  in  the  uniform  of  a  National  Guard,  bounded  from  the 
door  of  the  tavern,  crying  with  a  loud  voice,  "  Who  said  De 
Mauleon  ? — let  me  look  on  him  :  "  and  Victor,  who  had  strode 
on  with  slow  lion-like  steps,  cleaving  the  crowd,  turned,  and  saw 
before  him  in  the  gleaming  light  a  face,  in  which  the  bold, 
frank,  intelligent  aspect  of  former  days  was  lost  in  a  wild  reck- 
less, savage  expression — the  face  of  Armand  Monnier. 

"  Ha  !  are  you  really  Victor  de  Mauleon  }  "  asked  Monnier, 
not  fiercely,  but  under  his  breath, — in  that  sort  of  stage  whis- 
per which  is  the  natural  utterance  of  excited  men  under  the 
mingled  influence  of  potent  drink  and  hoarded  rage. 

"  Certainly  ;  I  am  Victor  de  Mauleon." 

"And   you  were  in   command  of   the company  of   the 

National  Guard  on  the   30th  of  November  at   Champigny  and 
Villiers  ?  " 

"  I  was." 

"  And  you  shot  with  your  own  hand  an  officer  belonging  to 
another  company,  who  refused  to  join  yours  ?  " 

"  I  shot  a  cowardly  soldier  who  ran  away  from  the  enemy 
and  seemed  a  ringleader  of  other  runaways  ;  and  in  so  doing, 
I  saved  from  dishonor  the  best  part  of  his  comrades." 

"  The  man  was  no  coward.  He  was  an  enlightened  French- 
m  in,  and  worth  fifty  of  such  arisios  as  you  ;  and  he  knew  better 
than  his  officers  that  he  was  to  be  led  to  an  idle  slaughter.  Idle 
— I  say  idle.  What  was  France  the  better,  how  was  Paris  the 
safer,  for  the  senseless  butchery  of  that  day!  You  mutinied 
against  a  wiser  general  than  Saint  Trochu  when  you  murdered 
that  mutineer." 

"Armand  Monnier,  you  are  not  quite  sober  to-night,  or  1 
would  argue  with  you  that  question.  But  you  no  doubt  are 
brave  :  how  and  why  do  you  take  the  part  of  a  runaway  .''  " 

"  How  and  why?  He  was  my  brother,  and  you  own  you 
murdered  him  :  my  brother — the   sagest  head  in   Paris.     If  J 


THE  PARISIANS. 


553 


had  listened  to  him,  I  should  not  be, — bah! — no  matter  now 
what  I  am." 

"  I  could  not  know  he  was  your  brother ;  but  if  he  had  been 
mine  I  would  have  done  the  same." 

Here  Victor's  lip  quivered,  for  Monnier  gripped  him  by  the 
arm,  and  looked  him  into  the  face  with  wild  stony  eyes. 

"  I  recollect  that  voice  !  Yet — yet — you  say  you  are  a 
noble,  a  Vicomte — Victor  de  Mauleon  !  and  you  shct  my 
brother  ! " 

Here  he  passed  his  left  hand  rapidly  over  his  forehead. 
The  fumes  of  wine  still  clouded  his  mind,  but  rays  of  intelligence 
broke  through  the  cloud.  Suddenly  he  said,  in  a  loud  and 
calm  and  natural  voice, — 

"  Mons.  le  Vicomte,  you  accost  me  as  Armand  Monnier — 
pray  how  do  you  know  my  name  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  not  know  it  ?  I  have  looked  into  the  meet- 
ings of  the  '  Clubs  rouges'  I  have  heard  you  speak,  and  natu- 
rally asked  your  name.  Bon-soir,  M.  Monnier  !  When  you  re- 
flect in  cooler  moments,  you  will  see  that  if  patriots  excuse 
Brutus  for  first  dishonoring  and  then  executing  his  own  son 
an  officer  charged  to  defend  his  country  may  be  surely  pardon- 
ed for  slaying  a  runaway  to  whom  he  was  no  relation,  when  in 
slaying  he  saved  the  man's  name  and  kindred  from  dishonor, 
unless,  indeed,  you  insist  on  telling  the  world  why  he  was  slain." 

"  I  know  your  voice — I  know  it.  Every  sound  becomes 
clearer  to  my  ear.     And  if " 

But  while  Monnier  thus  spoke,  De  Maule'on  had  hastened 
on.  Monnier  looked  round,  saw  him  gone,  but  did  not  pursue. 
He  was  just  intoxicated  enough  to  know  that  his  footsteps  were 
not  steady,  and  he  turned  back  to  the  wineshop  and  asked  sur- 
lily for  more  wine. 

Could  you  have  seen  him  then  as  he  leant  swinging  himseli 
to  and  fro  against  the  wall, — had  you  known  the  man  two  years 
ago,  you  would  have  been  a  brute  if  you  felt  disgust.  You  could 
only  have  felt  that  profound  compassion -with  which  we  gaze  on 
a  great  royalty  fallen.  For  the  grandest  of  all  royalties  is  that 
which  takes  its  crown  from  Nature,  needing  no  accident  oi 
brt":,  And  Nature  made  the  mind  of  Armand  Monnier  king- 
like ;  endowed  it  with  lofty  scorn  of  meanness  and  falsehood 
and  dishonor,  with  warmth  and  tenderness  of  heart  which  had 
glow  enough  to  spare  from  ties  of  kindred  and  hearth  and 
home  to  extend  to  those  distant  circles  of  humanity  over  which 
royal  natures  would  fain  extend  the  shadow  of  their  sceptre. 

How  had  the  royalty  of  the  man's  nature  fallen  thus  ?  Royalty 


^^4  ^'^^^'  PARISIANS. 

rarely  falls  from  its  own  constitutional  fault.  It  falls  when, 
ceasing  to  be  royal,  it  becomes  subservient  to  bad  advisers. 
And  what  bad  advisers,  always  appealing  to  his  better  qualities 
and  so  enlisting  his  worse,  had  discrowned  this  mechanic  ? 

"  A  little  knowledge  is  a  dangerous  thing." 

says  the  old-fashioned  poet.  "  Not  so,"  says  the  modern  phil- 
osopher ;  "  a  little  knowledge  is  safer  than  no  knowledge." 
Possibly,  as  all  individuals  and  all  communities  must  go  through 
the  stage  of  a  little  knowledge  before  they  can  arrive  at  that  of 
much  knowledge,  the  philosopher's  assertion  may  be  right  in 
the  long  run  and  apply  to  human  kind  in  general.  But  there 
is  a  period,  as  there  is  a  class,  in  which  a  little  knowledge  tends 
to  terrible  demoralization.  And  Armand  Monnier  lived  in 
that  period  and  was  one  of  that  class.  The  little  knowledge 
that  his  mind,  impulsive  and  ardent,  had  pffcked  up  out  of  books 
that  warred  with  the  great  foundations  of  existing  society,  had 
originated  in  ill  advices.  A  man  stored  with  much  knowledge 
would  never  have  let  Madame  de  Grantmesnil's  denunciations 
of  marriage-rites,  or  Louis  Blanc's  vindication  of  Robespierre 
as  the  representative  of  the  working  against  the  middle  class, 
influence  his  practical  life.  He  would  have  assessed  such 
opinions  at  their  real  worth,  and,  whatever  that  worth  might 
seem  to  him,  would  not  to  such  opinions  have  committed  the 
conduct  of  his  \\^t.  Opinion  is  not  fateful ;  conduct  is.  A  little 
knowledge  crazes  an  earnest,  warm-blooded,  powerful  creature 
like  Armand  Monnier  into  a  fanatic.  He  takes  an  opinion 
which  pleases  him  as  a  revelation  from  the  gods  ;  that  opinion 
shapes  his  conduct ;  that  conduct  is  his  fate.  Woe  to  the 
philosopher  who  serenely  flings  before  the  little  knowledge  of 
the  artisan  dogmas  as  harmless  as  the  Atlantis  of  Plato  if  only 
to  be  discussed  by  philosophers,  and  deadly  as  the  torches  of 
At^  if  seized  as  articles  of  creed  by  fanatics  !  But  thrice  woe 
to  the  artisan,  who  makes  himself  the  zealot  of  the  Dogma ! 

Poor  Armand  acts  on  the  opinion  he  adopts  ;  proves  his 
contempt  for  the  marriage  state  by  living  with  the  wife  of 
another  ;  resents,  as  natures  so  inherently  manly  must  do  the 
Society  that  visits  on  her  his  defiance  of  its  laws  ;  throws  him- 
self, head  foremost,  against  that  Society  altogether ;  necessarily 
joins  all  who  have  other  reasons  for  hostility  to  Society  ;  he 
himself  having  every  inducement  not  to  join  indiscriminate 
strikes — high  wages,  a  liberal  employer,  ample  savings,  the 
certainty  of  soon  becoming  employer  himself.     No;  that  is  not 


THE  PARISIANS. 


555 


enough  to  the  fanatic :  he  persists  in  being  dupe  and  victim. 
He,  this  great  king  of  labor,  crowned  by  Nature,  and  cursed 
with  that  degree  of  little  knowledge  which  does  not  comprehend 
how  much  more  is  required  before  a  schoolboy  would  admit  it 
to  be  knowledge  at  all, — he  rushes  into  the  maddest  of  specii 
lations — that  of  the  artisan  with  little  knowledge  and  enormous 
faith — that  which  intrusts  the  safety  and  repose  and  dignity  of 
life  to  some  ambitious  adventurer,  who  uses  his  warm  heart  foi 
the  adventurer's  frigid  purpose,  much  as  the  lawyer-government 
of  September  used  the  Communists, — much  as,  in  every  revolu- 
tion of  France,  a  Bertrand  has  used  a  Raton — much  as,  till  the 
sound  of  the  last  trumpet,  men  very  much  worse  than  Victor  de 
Mauleon  will  use  men  very  much  better  than  Armand  Monnier 
if  the  Armand  Monniers  disdain  the  modesty  of  an  Isaac  New- 
ton on  hearing  that  a  theorem  to  which  he  had  given  all  the 
strength  of  his  patient  intellect  was  disputed.  "  It  may  be 
so  ;  "  meaning,  I  suppose,  that  it  requires  a  large  amount  of 
experience  ascertained  before  a  man  of  much  knowledge  be- 
comes that  which  a  man  of  little  knowledge  is  at  a  jump — the 
fanatic  of  an  experiment  untried. 


CHAPTER  II. 


Scarcely  had  De  Mauleon  quitted  Lemercier  before  the 
latter  was  joined  by  two  loungers  scarcely  less  famished  than 
himself —  Savarin  and  De  Breze.  Like  himself,  too,  both 
had  been  sufferers  from  illness,  though  not  of  a  nature  to  be 
consigned  to  a  hospital.  All  manner  of  diseases  then  had 
combined  to  form  the  pestilence  which  filled  the  streets  with 
unregarded  hearses — bronchitis,  pneumonia,  small-pox  a  strange 
sort  of  spurious  dysentery  much  more  speedily  fatal  than  the 
genuine.  The  three  men,  a  year  before  so  sleek,  looked  like 
ghosts  under  the  withering  sky  ;  yet  all  three  retained  embers 
of  the  native  Parisian  humor,  which  their  very  breath  on 
meeting  sufficed  to  kindle  up  into  jubilant  sparks  of  rapid 
flashes. 

There  are  two  consolations,"  said  Savarin,  as  the  friends 
strolled,  or  rather  crawled,  towards  the  Boulevards — "  two 
consolations  for  the  gounnet  and  for  the   proprietor  in  these 


gjG  THE  PARISIANS. 

days  of  trial  for  the  gourmand,  because  the  price  of  truffles 
is  come  down." 

"  Truffles  !  "  gasped  De  Breze,  with  watering  mouth  ;  '*  im- 
possible !     They  are  gone  with  the  age  of  gold." 

"  Not  so.  I  speak  on  the  best  authority — my  laundress; 
for  she  attends  the  succursale  in  the  Rue  de  Chateaudun,  and 
if  the  poor  woman,  being,  luckily  for  me,  a  childless  widow, 
gets  a  morsel  she  can  spare,  she  sells  it  to  me." 

"  Sells  it !  "  feebly  exclaimed  Lemercier.  "  Grcesus  !  you 
have  money,  then,  and  can  buy  ?  " 

"  Sells  it — on  credit !  I  am  to  pension  her  for  life  if  I 
live  to  have  money  again.  Don't  interrupt  me.  This  honest 
woman  goes  this  morning  to  the  succursale.  1  promise  myself 
a  delicious  biftek  of  horse.  She  gains  the  succursale,  and  the 
employe  informs  her  that  there  is  nothing  left  in  his  store 
except — truffles.  A  glut  of  those  in  the  market  allows  him  to 
offer  her  a  bargain — seven  francs  la  boite.  Send  me  seven 
francs,  De  Dreze,  and  you  shall  share  the  banquet." 

De  Bre'ze  shook  his  head  expressively. 

"  But,"  resumed  Savarin,  "  though  credit  exists  no  more 
except  with  my  laundress,  upon  terms  of  which  the  usury  is 
necessarily  proportioned  to  the  risk,  yet,  as  I  had  the  honor 
before  to  observe,  there  is  comfort  for  the  proprietor.  The 
instinct  of  property  is  imperishable." 

"  Not  in  the  house  where  I  lodge,"  said  Lemercier.  "  Two 
soldiers  were  billeted  there  ;  and  during  my  stay  in  the  ambu- 
lance they  enter  my  rooms  and  cart  away  all  of  the  little 
furniture  left  there,  except  a  bed  and  a  table.  Brought  before 
a  court-martial,  they  defend  themselves  by  saying,  '  The  rooms 
were  abandoned.'  The  excuse  was  held  valid.  They  were 
let  off  with  a  reprimand,  and  a  promise  to  restore  what  was 
not  already  disposed  of.  They  have  restored  me  another 
table  and  four  chairs." 

"  Nevertheless  they  had  the  instinct  of  property,  though 
erroneously  developed;  otherwise  they  would  not  have  deemed 
any  excuse  for  their  act  necessary.  Now  for  my  instance  of 
the  inherent  tenacity  of  that  instinct.  A  worthy  citizen  in 
want  of  fuel  sees  a  door  in  a  garden  wall,  and  naturally  carries 
off  the  door.  He  is  apprehended  by  a  gendarme  who  sees  the 
act.  '  Voleur,  he  cries  to  the  gendarme,  '  do  you  want  to  rob 
me  of  my  property  ? '  '  That  door  your  property  ?  I  saw  you 
take  it  away.'  '  You  confess,'  cries  the  citizen,  triumphantly 
— 'you  confess  that  it  is  my  property;  for  you  saw  me  appro- 
priate it.'     Thus  you   see  how   imperishable   is   the  instinct  ol 


THE  PARISIANS. 


557 


property.  No  sooner  does  it  disappear  as  yours,  than  it  reapn 
pears  as  mine." 

"I  would  laugh  if  I  could,  '  said  Lemercier,  "  but  such  a 
convulsion  would  be  fatal.  Dieu  des  dieux,  how  empty  I  am  ! " 
He  reeled  as  he  spoke,  and  clung  to  De  Breze  for  support. 

De  Brdzd  had  the  reputation  of  being  the  most  selfish  of 
men.  But  at  that  moment,  when  a  generous  m.an  might  be 
excused  for  being  selfish  enough  to  desire  to  keep  the  little 
that  he  had  for  his  own  reprieve  from  starvation,  this  egotist 
became  superb.  "Friends,"  he  cried,  with  enthusiasm;"! 
have  something  yet  in  my  pocket ;  we   will  dine,  all   three   of 


us." 


"  Dine  !  "  faltered  Lemercier.  '  Dine  !  I  have  not  dined 
since  I  left  the  hospital.  I  breakfasted  yesterday — on  two 
mice  upon  toast.  Dainty,  but  not  nutritious.  And  I  shared 
them  with  Fox." 

"  Fox.     Fox  lives  still,  then  ?  "  cried  De  Brdzd,  startled. 

"  In  a  sort  of  way  he  does.  But  one  mouse  since  yesterday 
morning  is  not  much;  and  he  can't  expect  that  every  day." 

"  Why  don't  you  take  him  out .?  "  asked  Savarin.  "  Give 
him  a  chance  of  picking  up  a  bone  somewhere." 

"  I  dare  not.  He  would  be  picked  up  himself.  Dogs  are 
getting  very  valuable  :  they  sell  for  fifty  francs  apiece.  Come, 
De  Breze,  where  are  we  to  dine  ? " 

"  I  and  Savarin  can  dine  at  the  London  Tavern  upon  rat 
pate  or  jugged  cat.  But  it  would  be  impertinence  to  invite  a 
satrap  like  yourself,  who  has  a  whole  dog  in  his  larder — a  dish 
of  fifty  francs — a  dish  for  a  king.  Adieu,  my  dear  Frederic. 
Allans,  Savarin." 

"  I  feasted  you  on  better  meats  than  dog  when  I  could 
afford  it,"  said  Frederic,  plaintively ;  "  and  the  first  time  you 
invite  me  you  retract  the  invitation.     Be  it  so.     Bon  appetit." 

"  Bah ! "  said  De  Breze,  catching  Frederic's  arm  as  he 
turned  to  depart.  "  Of  course  I  was  but  jesting.  Only,  another 
day,  when  my  pockets  will  be  empty,  do  think  what  an  excel- 
lent thing  a  roasted  dog  is,  and  make  up  your  mind  while  Fox 
has  still  some  little  flesh  on  his  bones." 

"  Flesh  !  "  said  Savarin,  detaining  them.  "  Look  ;  See 
how  right  Voltaire  was  in  saying,  '  Amusement  is  the  first 
necessity  of  civilized  man.'  Paris  can  do  without  oread :  Paris 
still  retains  Polichinello." 

He  pointed  to  the  puppet-show,  round  which  a  crowd,  not  of 
children  alone,  b  it  of  men — middle-aged  and  old — were  col- 


2^8  THE  PARISIANS. 

lected  ;  while  sous  were  dropped  into  the  tin  handed  round  by 
a  squalid  boy. 

"  And,  mon  avii."  whispered  De  Brezc  to  Lemercier,  with 
the  voice  of  a  tempting  fiend,  "  observe  how  Punch  is  without 
his  dog." 

It  was  true.  The  dog  w^as  gone,  its  place  supplied  by  a 
melancholy  emaciated  cat. 

Frederic  crawled  towards  the  squalid  boy.  "  What  has  be- 
come of  Punch's  dog  ?  " 

"  We  ate  him  last  Sunday.  Next  Sunday  we  shall  have 
the  cat  in  a  pie,"  said  the  urchin,  with  a  sensual  smack  of  the 
lips. 

"  Oh,  Fox  !  Fox!"  murmured  Frederic,  as  the  three  men 
went  slowly  down  through  the  darkening  streets — the  roar  of  the 
Prussian  guns  heard  afar,  while  distinct  and  near  rang  ttie 
laugh  of  the  idlers  round  the  punch  without  a  dog. 


CHAPTER  III. 

While  De  Brdz^  and  his  friends  were  feasting  at  the  Cafe 
Anglais,  and  faring  better  than  the  host  had  promised — for  the 
bill  of  fare  comprised  such  luxuries  as  ass,  mule,  peas,  fried 
potatoes,  and  champagne  (champagne  in  some  mysterious  way 
was  inexhaustible  during  the  time  of  famine) — a  very  different 
group  had  assembled  in  the  rooms  of  Isaura  Cicogna.  She  and 
the  Venosta  had  hitherto  escaped  the  extreme  destitution  to 
which  many  richer  persons  had  been  reduced.  It  is  true  that 
Isaura's  fortune,  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  absent  Louvier  and 
invested  in  the  new  street  that  was  to  have  been,  brought  no  re- 
turn. It  was  true  that  in  that  street  ihe  Venosta,  dreaming  of 
cent,  per  cent.,  had  invested  all  her  savings.  But  the  Venosta, 
at  the  first  announcement  of  war,  had  insisted  on  retaining  in 
hand  a  small  sum  from  the  amount  Isaura  had  received  from 
her  "  ronian,"  that  might  suffice  for  current  expenses,  and  with 
yet  more  acute  foresight  had  laid  in  stores  of  provisions  and 
fuel  immediately  after  the  probability  of  a  siege  became  appar- 
ent. I>ut  even' the  provident  mind  of  the  Venosta  h*  1  never 
foreseen  that  the  siege  would  endure  so  long,  or  that  the  prices 
of  all   articles  of  necessit}    wDuld  rise  so  high.     And   mean- 


iHH  PARISIAN'S.  559 

while  all  resources — money,  fuel,  provisions — had  been  largely- 
drawn  upon  by  the  charity  and  benevolence  of  Isaura  without 
much  remonstrance  on  the  part  of  the  Venosta,  whose  nature  was 
very  accessible  to  pity.  Unfortunately,  too  of  late  money  and  pro- 
visions had  failed  to  Monsieur  and  Madame  Rameau,  their  income 
consisting  partly  of  rents,  no  longer  paid,  and  the  profits  of  a 
sleeping  partnership  in  the  old  shop,  from  which  custom  had 
departed,  so  that  they  came  to  share  the  fireside  and  meals  at 
the  rooms  of  their  son's  fiancee  with  little  scruple,  because 
utterly  unaware  that  the  money  retained  and  the  provisions 
stored  by  the  Venosta  were  now  nearly  exhausted. 

The  patriotic  ardor  which  had  first  induced  the  elder  Ra- 
meau to  volunteer  his  services  as  a  National  Guard  had  been  ere 
this  cooled,  if  not  suppressed,  first  by  the  hardships  of  the  duty, 
and  then  by  the  disorderly  conduct  of  his  associates  and  their 
ribald  talk  and  obscene  songs.  He  was  much  beyond  the  age 
at  which  he  could  be  registered.  His  son  was,  however  com- 
pelled to  become  his  substitute,  though,  from  his  sickly  health 
and  delicate  frame,  attached  to  that  portion  of  the  National 
Guard  which  took  no  part  in  actual  engagement  and  was  sup- 
posed to  do  work  on  the  ramparts  and  maintain  order  in  the 
city. 

In  that  duty,  so  opposed  to  his  tastes  and  habits,  Gustave 
signalized  himself  as  one  of  the  loudest  declaimers  against  the 
imbecility  of  the  government,  and  in  the  demand  for  immediate 
and  energetic  action,  no  matter  at  what  loss  of  life,  on  the  part 
of  all — except  the  heroic  force  to  which  he  himself  was 
attached.  Still,  despite  his  military  labors,  Gustave  found  leis- 
ure to  contribute  to  Red  journals,  and  his  contributions  paid 
him  tolerably  well.  To  do  him  justice,  his  parents  concealed 
from  him  the  extent  of  their  destitution  ;  they,  on  their  part, 
not  aware  that  he  was  so  able  to  assist  them,  rather  fearing  that 
he  himself  had  nothing  else  for  support  but  his  scanty  pay  as  a 
National  Guard.  In  fact,  of  late  the  parents  and  son  had  seen 
little  of  each  other.  M.  Rameau,  though  a  Liberal  politician, 
was  liberal  as  a  tradesman,  not  as  a  Red  Republican  or  a  Socia- 
list. And,  though  little  heeding  his  son's  theories  while  the 
Empire  secured  him  from  the  practical  effect  of  them,  he  was 
now  as  sincerely  frightened  at  the  chance  of  the  Cummunists 
becoming  rampant  as  most  of  the  Parisian  tradesman  were. 
Madame  Rameau,  on  her  side,  though  she  had  the  dislike  to 
aristrocrats  which  was  prevalent  with  her  class,  was  a  stanch 
Roman  Catholic,  and,  seeing  in  the  disasters  that  had  befallen 
her  country  the  punishment  justly  incurred  by  its  sins,  could 


560 


THE  PARISIANS. 


not  but  be  shocked  by  the  opinions  of  Gustave,  though  she 
little  knew  that  he  was  the  author  of  certain  articles  in  certan-: 
journals,  in  which  these  opinions  were  proclaimed  with  a  vehe- 
mence far  exceeding  that  which  they  assumed  in  his  conversa^ 
tion.  She  had  spoken  to  him  with  warm  anger,  mixed  with 
passionate  tears,  on  his  irreligious  principles ;  and  from  that 
moment  Gustave  shunned  to  give  her  another  opportunitv  ol 
■'nsulting  his  pride  and  depreciating  his  wisdom. 

Partly  to  avoid  meeting  his  pai'ents,  partly  became  he  recoiled 
almost  as  much  from  the  enmti  of  meeting  the  other  visitors  at 
her  apartments — the  Paris  ladies  associated  with  her  in  the 
ambulance,  Raoul  de  Vandemar,  whom  he  especially  hated,  and 
the  Abbe'  Vertpre,  who  had  recently  come  into  intimate  friend- 
ship with  both  the  Italian  ladies — his  visits  to  Isaura  had  be- 
come exceedingly  rare.  He  made  his  incessant  military  duties 
the  pretext  for  absenting  himself;  and  now,  on  this  evening, 
there  were  gathered  round  Isaura's  hearth — on  which  burned 
almost  the  last  of  the  hoarded  fuel — the  Venosta,  the  two 
Rameaus,  and  the  Abbe  Vertpre,  who  was  attached  as  con- 
fessor to  the  society  of  which  Isaura  was  so  zealous  a  member. 
The  old  priest  and  the  young  poetess  had  become  dear  friends. 
There  is  in  the  nature  of  a  woman  (and  especially  of  a  woman 
at  once  so  gifted  and  so  childlike  as  Isaura,  combining  an 
innate  tendency  towards  faith  with  a  reckless  inquisitiveness  of 
intellect,  which  is  always  suggesting  query  or  doubt)  a  craving 
for  something  afar  from  the  sphere  of  her  sorrow,  which  can 
only  be  obtained  through  that  "bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky" 
which  we  call  religion.  And  hence,  to  natures  like  Isaura's, 
that  link  between  the  woman  and  the  priest,  which  the  philos- 
ophy of  France  has  never  been  able  to  dissever. 

"  It  is  growing  late,"  said  Madame  Rameau  ;  "  I  am  be- 
ginning to  feel  uneasy.     Our  dear  Isaura  is  not  yet  returned." 

"  You  need  be  under  no  apprehension,"  said  the  Abbe. 
"  The  ladies  attached  to  the  ambulance  of  which  she  is  so  ten- 
der and  zealous  a  sister  incur  no  risk.  There  are  always  brave 
n:en  related  to  the  sick  and  wounded  who  see  to  the  safe  re- 
turn of  the  women.  My  poor  Raoul  visits  that  ambulance 
daily.  His  kinsman,  M.  de  Rochebriant,  is  there  among  the 
wounded." 

"  Not  seriously  hurt  ?  I  hope,"  said  the  Venosta  "  not  dis- 
figured ?  He  was  so  handsome  ;  it  is  only  the  ugly  warrior 
whom  a  scar  ©n  the  face  improves." 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  Signora  ;  the  Prussian  guns  spared  his 
face.     His  wounds  iu  themselves  were  not  dangerous,  but  no 


THE  PARISIANS.  c6l 

lost  a  good  deal  of  blood.     Raoul  and  the  Christian  broihers 
found  him  insensible  among  a  heap  of  the  slain," 

"  M.  Vandemar  seems  to  have  very  soon  recovered  the 
shock  of  his  poor  brother's  death,"  said  Madame  Rameau. 
•'  There  is  very  little  heart  in  an  aristocrat." 

The  Abbe"s  mild  brow  contracted.  "  Have  more  charit}', 
my  daughter.  It  is  because  Raoul's  sorrow  for  his  lost  brother 
is  so  deep  and  so  holy  that  he  devotes  himself  more  than  ever 
to  the  service  of  the  Father  which  is  in  heaven.  He  said,  a  day 
or  two  after  the  burial,  when  plans  for  a  monument  to  Enguer- 
rand  were  submitted  to  him,  '  May  my  prayer  be  vouchsafed, 
and  my  life  be  a  memorial  of  him  more  acceptable  to  his  gentle 
spirit  than  monuments  of  bronze  or  marble.  May  I  be  divinely 
guided  and  sustained  in  my  desire  to  do  such  good  acts  as  he 
would  have  done  had  he  been  spared  longer  to  earth.  And 
whenever  tempted  to  weary,  may  my  conscience  whisper. 
Betray  not  the  trust  left  to  thee  by  thy  brother,  lest  thou  be 
not  reunited  to  him  at  last.' " 

"  Pardon  me,  pardon  !  "  murmured  Madame  Rameau,  hum- 
bly, while  the  Venosta  burst  into  tears. 

The  Abbe,  though  a  most  sincere  and  earnest  enthusiastic, 
was  a  cheery  and  genial  man  of  the  world  ;  and  in  order  to 
relieve  Madame  Rameau  from  the  painful  self-reproach  he  had 
before  excited,  he  turned  the  conversation.  "  I  must  beware, 
however,"  he  said,  with  his  pleasant  laugh,  "  as  to  the  company 
in  which  I  interfere  in  family  questions,  and  especially  in  which 
I  defend  my  poor  Raoul  from  any  charge  brought  against  him. 
For  some  good  friend  this  day  sent  me  a  terrible  organ  of 
Communistic  philosophy,  in  which  we  humble  priests  are  very 
roughly  handled,  and  I  myself  am  specially  singled  out  by 
name  as  a  pestilent  inlermeddler  in  the  affairs  of  private  house- 
holds. I  am  said  to  set  the  woman  against  the  brave  men  who 
are  friends  of  the  people,  and  am  cautioned  by  very  truculent 
threats  to  cease  from  such  villanous  practices."  And  here, 
with  a  dry  humor  that  turned  into  ridicule  what  would  other- 
wise have  excited  disgust  and  indignation  among  his  listeners, 
he  read  aloud  passages  replete  with  a  sort  of  false  eloquence 
which  was  then  the  vogue  among  the  Red  journals.  In  these 
passages,  not  only  the  Abbe  was  pointed  out  for  popular  exe- 
cration, but  Raoul  de  Vandemar,  though  not  expressly  named, 
was  clearly  indicated  as  a  pupil  of  the  Abbd's,  the  type  of  a  lay 
Jesuit. 

The  Venosta  alone  did   not   share   in   the   contemptuous 
laughter  with  which  the  inflated  style  of  these  diatribes  inspir- 


562 


THE  PARISIANS. 


ed  the  Rameaus.     Her  simple  Italian  mind  was  horror-stricken 
by  language  which  the  Abbd  treated  with  ridicule. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  M.  Ranieau,  "  I  guess  the  author — that  fire- 
brand Felix  Pyat." 

"  No,"  answered  the  Abbe  ;  "  the  writer  signs  himself  by 
the  name  of  a  more  learned  atheist — Diderot  le Jeune." 

Here  the  door  opened,  and  Raoul  entered,  accompanying 
Isaura.  A  change  had  come  over  the  face  of  the  young  Van 
demar  since  his  brother's  death.  The  lines  about  the  mouth 
had  deepened,  the  cheeks  had  lost  their  rounded  contour  and 
grown  somewhat  hollow.  Bnt  the  expression  was  as  serene  as 
ever,  perhaps  even  less  pensively  melancholy.  His  whole  as- 
pect was  that  of  a  man  who  had  sorrowed,  but  been  supported 
in  sorrow  ;  perhaps  it  was  more  sweet — certainly  it  was  more 
lofty. 

And,  as  if  there  were  in  the  atmosphere  of  his  presence 
something  that  communicated  the  likeness  of  his  own  soul  to 
others,  since  Isaura  had  been  brought  into  his  companionship, 
her  own  lovely  face  had  caught  the  expression  that  prevailed  in 
his — that,  too,  had  become  more  sweet — that,  too,  had  become 
more  lofty. 

The  friendship  that  had  grown  up  between  these  two  young 
mourners  was  of  a  very  rare  nature.  It  had  in  it  no  sentiment 
that  could  ever  warm  into  the  passion  of  human  love.  Indeed, 
had  Isaura's  heart  been  free  to  give  away,  love  for  Raoul  de 
Vandemar  would  have  seemed  to  her  a  profanation.  He  was 
never  more  priestly  than  when  he  was  most  tender.  And  the 
tenderness  of  Raoul  towards  her  was  that  of  some  saint-like 
nature  towards  the  acolyte  whom  it  attracted  upwards.  He 
had  once,  just  before  Enguerrand's  death,  spoken  to  Isaura 
with  a  touching  candor  as  to  his  own  predilection  for  a  monas- 
tic life.  "  The  wordly  avocations  that  open  useful  and  honor- 
able careers  for  others  have  no  charm  for  me.  I  care  not  for 
riches  nor  power,  nor  honors  nor  fame.  The  austerities  of  the 
conventual  life  have  no  terror  for  me  ;  on  the  contrary,  they 
have  a  charm,  for  with  them  are  abstraction  from  earth  and 
meditation  on  heaven.  In  earlier  years  I  might,  like  oLier 
men,  have  cherished  dreams  of  human  love,  and  felicity  'n 
married  life,  but  for  the  sort  of  veneration  with  ^vfiich  I  e- 
garded  one  to  whom  I  owe — humanly  speaking — whatever  of 
good  there  may  be  in  me.  Just  when  first  taking  my  place 
among  the  society  of  young  men  who  banish  from  their  life  all 
thought  of  another,  I  came  under  the  influence  of  a  woman 
who  taught  me  to  see  that  holiness  was  beauty.     She  gradual 


THE  PARISIANS.  5O3 

ly  associated  me  with  her  acts  of  benevolence,  and  from  her 
I  learned  to  lov'e  God  too  well  not  to  be  indulgent  to  his  crea- 
tures. I  know  not  whether  the  attachment  I  felt  to  her  could 
have  been  inspired  in  one  who  had  not  from  childhood  con- 
Cf'ived  a  romance,  not  perhaps  justified  by  history,  for  the  ideal 
images  of  chivalr}'.  My  feeling  for  her  at  first  was  that  of  tlie 
pure  and  poetic  homage  which  a  young  knight  was  permitted, 
san^  reproche,  to  render  to  some  fair  queen  or  chatelaine,  whose 
Cfilors  he  wore  in  the  lists,  whose  spotless  repute  he  would 
have  periled  his  life  to  defend.  But  soon  even  that  sentiment, 
pure  as  it  was,  became  chastened  from  all  breath  of  earthly 
love,  in  proportion  as  the  admiration  refined  itself  into  rever- 
ence. She  has  often  urged  me  to  marry,  but  I  have  no  bride 
on  this  earth.  I  do  but  want  to  see  Enguerrand  happily  mar- 
ried, and  then  I  quit  the  world  for  the  cloister." 

But  after  Enguerrand's  death,  Raoul  resigned  all  idea  of 
the  convent.  That  evening,  as  he  attended  to  their  homes 
Isaura  and  the  other  ladies  attached  to  the  ambulance,  he 
said,  in  answer  to  inquiries  about  his  mother,  "  She  is  resigned 
and  calm  ;  I  have  promised  her  I  will  not,  while  she  lives, 
bury  her  other  son  :  I  renounce  my  dreams  of  the  monastery." 

Raoul  did  not  remain  many  minutes  at  Isaura's.  The 
Abbe  accompanied  him  on  his  way  home.  "  I  have  a  request 
to  make  to  you,"  said  the  former  ;  "  you  know,  of  course,  your 
distant  cousin  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon  ? " 

"  Yes.     Not  so  well  as  I  ought,  for  Enguerrand  liked  him." 

"  Well  enough,  at  all  events,  to  call  on  him  with  a  request 
which  I  am  commissioned  to  make,  but  it  might  come  better 
from  you  as  a  kinsman.  I  am  a  stranger  to  him,  and  I  know 
not  whether  a  man  of  that  sort  would  not  regard  as  an  officious 
intermeddling  any  communication  made  to  him  by  a  priest. 
The  matter,  however,  is  a  very  simple  one.  At  the  convent  of 
there  is  a  poor  nun  who  is,  I  fear,  dying.  She  has  an  in- 
tense desire  to  see  M.  de  Mauleon,  whom  she  declares  to  be 
her  uncle  and  her  only  surviving  relative.  The  laws  of  the 
1  on  vent  are  not  too  austere  to  prevent  the  interview  she  seek.s 
in  such  a  case.  I  should  add  that  I  am  not  acquainted  w'.ih 
her  previous  history.  I  am  not  the  confessor  of  the  sister- 
hood ;  he,  poor  man,  was  badly  wounded  by  a  chance  ball  a 
few  days  ago  when  attached  to  an  ambulance  ow  the  ramparts. 
As  soon  as  the  surgeon  would  allow  him  to  see  any  one,  he 
sent  for  me,  and  bade  me  go  to  the  nun  I  speak  of — Sister 
Ursula.  It  seems  that  he  had  informed  her  that  M.  de  Mau- 
leon was  at  Paris,  and  had  promised  to  ascertain  his  address. 


c64  ^^^^  PARIS/A.rs. 

His  wound  had  prevented  his  doing  so,  but  he  trusted  to  me  to 
procure  the  information.  I  am  well  acquainted  with  the  Supe 
rieure  of  the  convent,  and  I  flatter  myself  that  she  holds  me  in 
esteem.  I  had  therefore  no  difhculty  to  obtain  her  permission 
to  see  this  poor  nun,  which  I  did  this  evening.  She  implored 
me  for  the  peace  of  her  soul  to  lose  no  time  in  finding  out  M. 
de  Maule'on's  address  and  entreating  him  to  visit  her.  Lest  he 
should  demur,  I  was  to  give  him  the  name  by  which  he  hati 
known  her  in  the  world — Louise  Duval.  Of  course  I  obeyed. 
The  address  of  a  man  who  has  so  distinguished  himself  in  this 
unhappy  siege  I  very  easily  obtained,  and  repaired  at  once  to 
M.  de  Mauldon's  apartment.  I  there  learned  that  he  was  from 
home,  and  was  uncertain  whether  he  would  not  spend  the  night 
on  the  ramparts." 

"  I  will  not  fail   to   see   him  early  in  the  morning,"  said 
Raoul,  "  and  execute  your  commission," 


CHAPTER  IV. 


De  Mauleon  was  somewhat  surprised  by  Raoul's  visit  the 
next  morning.  He  had  no  great  liking  for  a  kinsman  whose 
politely  distant  reserve  towards  him,  in  contrast  to  poor  En- 
guerrand's  genial  heartiness,  had  much  wounded  his  sensitive 
self-respect ;  nor  could  he  comprehend  the  religious  scruples 
which  forbade  Raoul  to  take  a  soldier's  share  in  the  battle- 
field, though  in  seeking  there  to  save  the  lives  of  others  so 
fearlessly  hazardmg  his  own  life. 

"Pardon,"  said  Raoul,  with  his  sweet  mournful  smile,  "the 
unseasonable  hour  at  which  I  disturb  you.  But  your  duties  on 
the  ramparts  and  mine  in  the  hospital  begin  early,  and  I  have 
promised  the  Abbd  Vertprd  to  communicate  a  message  of  a 
nature  which  perhaps  you  may  deem  pressing.  He  proceeded 
at  once  to  repeat  what  the  Abbe  had  communicated  to  him  the 
night  before  relative  to  the  illness  and  the  request  of  the  nun. 

"  Louise  Duval  !  "  exclaimed  the  Vicomte, — "  discovered  at 
last,  and  a  religicuse !  Ah  !  I  now  understand  why  she  never 
sought  me  out  when  I  reappeared  at  Paris.  Tidings  of  that 
sort  do  not  penetrate  the  walls  of  a  convent.  I  am  greatly 
obliged  to  you,  M,  de  VandCmar,  for  the  trouble  you  have  so 
kindly  taken.     This  poor  nun  is  related  to  me,  and  I  will  a1 


THE  PARISIANS. 


5^5 


once   obey   the   summons.     But   this   convent   des I    am 

ashamed  to  say  I  know  not  where  it  is.     A  long  way  off,  i  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"  Allow  me  to  be  your  guide,"  said  Raoul ;  "  I  should  take 
it  as  a  favor  to  be  allowed  to  see  a  little  more  of  a  man  whom 
my  lost  brother  held  in  such  esteem." 

Victor  was  touched  by  this  conciliatory  speech,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  more  the  two  men  were  on  their  way  to  the  coh* 
vent  on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine. 

Victor  commenced  the  conversation  by  a  warm  and  heart- 
felt tribute  to  Enguerrand's  character  and  memory.  "  I 
never,"  he  said,  "  knew  a  nature  more  rich  in  the  most  endear- 
ing qualities  of  youth  ;  so  gentle,  so  high-spirited,  rendering 
ever}^  virtue  more  attractive,  and  redeeming  such  few  faults  or 
foibles  as  youth  so  situated  and  so  tempted  cannot  wholly  es- 
cape, with  an  urbanity  not  conventional,  not  artificial,  but  re- 
flected from  the  frankness  of  a  genial  temper  and  the  tender- 
ness of  a  generous  heart.  Be  comforted  for  his  loss,  my  kins- 
man. A  brave  death  was  the  proper  crown  of  that  beautiful 
life." 

Raoul  made  no  answer,  but  pressed  gratefully  the  arm  now 
linked  within  his  own.  The  companions  walked  on  in  silence  ; 
Victor's  mind  settling  on  the  visit  he  was  about  to  make  to  the 
niece  so  long  mysteriously  lost  and  now  so  unexpectedly  found. 
Louise  had  inspired  him  with  a  certain  interest  from  her  beauty 
and  force  of  character,  but  never  with  any  warm  affection.  He 
felt  relieved  to  find  that  her  life  had  found  its  close  in  the 
sanctuary  of  the  convent.  He  had  never  divested  himself  of 
a  certain  fear,  inspired  by  Louvier's  statement,  that  she  might 
five  to  bring  scandal  and  disgrace  on  the  name  he  had  with  so 
much  difficulty,  and  after  so  lengthened  an  anguish,  partially 
cleared  in  his  own  person. 

Raoul  left  De  Maul^on  at  the  gate  of  the  convent,  and  took 
his  way  towards  the  hospitals  where  he  visited,  and  the  poor 
whom  he  relieved. 

Victor  was  conducted  silently  into  the  convent  parloir ;  and, 
after  waiting  there  several  minutes,  the  door  opened,  and  the 
Superieure  entered.  As  she  advanced  towards  him,  with  a 
stately  step  and  solemn  visage,  De  Maule'on  recoiled,  and  ut- 
tered a  half-suppressed  exclamation  that  partook  both  of  amaze 
and  awe.  Could  it  be  possible  ?  Was  this  majestic  woman, 
with  the  grave,  impassible  aspect,  once  the  ardent  girl  whose 
tender  letters  he  had  cherished  through  stormy  years,  and  only 
burned  on  the   night  before  the  most  perilous  of  his  battle« 


566 


THE  PARISIANS. 


fields  ? — this  the  one,  the  sole  one,  whom  m  his  younger  dreams 
he  had  seen  as  his  destined  wife  ?  It  was  so — it  was.  Doubt 
vanished  when  he  heard  her  voice  ;  and  yet  how  different  every 
tone,  every  accent,  from  those  of  the  low,  soft,  thrilling  music 
that  had  breathed  in  the  voice  of  old  ! 

"  M.  de  Maule'on,"  said  the  Superieure,  calmly,  "  I  grieve 
to  sadden  you  by  very  mournful  intelligence.  Yesterday  even- 
ing when  the  Abbe  undertook  to  convey  to  you  the  request  of 
our  sister  Ursula,  although  she  was  beyond  mortal  hope  of  re- 
covery— as  otherwise  you  will  conceive  that  I  could  not  have 
relaxed  the  rules  of  this  house  so  as  to  sanction  your  visits 
there  was  no  apprehension  of  imn.ediate  danger.  It  was  be 
lieved  that  her  sufferings  would  be  prolonged  for  some  days.  I 
saw  her  late  last  night  before  retiring  to  my  cell,  and  she  seem- 
ed even  stronger  than  she  had  been  for  the  last  week.  A  sister 
remained  at  watch  in  her  cell.  Towards  morning  she  fell  into 
apparently  quiet  sleep,  and  in  that  sleep  she  passed  away." 
The  Superieure  here  crossed  herself,  and  murmured  pious 
words  in  Latin. 

"  Dead  !  my  poor  niece  !  "  said  Victor  feelingly,  roused  from 
his  stun  at  the  first  sight  of  the  Superieure  by  her  measured 
tones,  and  the  melancholy  information  she  so  composedly  con- 
veyed to  him.  "  I  cannot,  then  even  learn  why  she  so  wished 
to  see  me  once  more, — oi  what  she  might  have  requested  at 
my  hands  !  " 

"  Pardon,  M.  le  Vicomte.  Such  sorrowful  consolation  I 
have  resolved  to  afford  you,  not  without  scruples  of  conscience, 
but  not  without  sanction  of  the  excellent  x\bbe'  Vertprd,  whom 
I  summoned  early  this  morning  to  decide  my  duties  in  the 
sacred  office  I  hold.  As  soon  as  Sister  Ursula  heard  of  your 
return  to  Paris,  she  obtained  my  permission  to  address  to  you 
a  letter,  subjected,  when  finished,  to  my  perusal  and  sanction. 
She  felt  that  she  had  much  on  her  mind  which  her  feeble  state 
might  forbid  her  to  make  known  to  you  in  conversation  with 
sufficient  fulness  ;  and,  as  she  could  only  have  seen  you  in  the 
presence  of  one  of  the  sisters,  she  imagined  that  there  would 
also  be  less  restraint  in  a  written  communication.  In  fine,  her 
request  was  that,  when  you  called,  I  might  first  place  this  letter 
in  your  hands,  and  allow  you  time  to  read  it,  before  being  ad- 
mitted to  her  presence  ;  when  a  few  words,  conveying  your 
promise  to  attend  to  the  wishes  with  which  you  would  then  be 
acquainted,  would  suffice  for  an  interview  in  her  exhausted  con- 
dition.    Do  I  make  myself  understood  ?" 

"Certainly,  Madame, — and  the  letter?" 


THE  PARISIANS.  cgy 

"  She  had  concluded  last  evening  ;  and  when  I  took  leave  of 
her  later  in  the  night,  she  placed  it  in  my  hands  for  approval.  M. 
le  Vicomte,  it  pains  me  to  say  that  there  is  much  in  the  tone  of 
that  letter  which  I  grieve  for  and  condemn.  And  it  was  m/ 
intention  to  point  this  out  to  our  sister  at  morning,  and  tell  her 
that  passages  must  be  altered  before  I  could  give  you  the  letter. 
Her  sudden  decease  deprived  me  of  this  opportunity.  I  could 
not,  of  course,  alter  or  erase  a  line — a  word.  My  only  option 
was  to  suppress  the  letter  altogether,  or  give  it  to  you  intact. 
The  Abbe  thinks,  that  on  the  whole,  my  duty  does  not  forbid 
the  dictate  of  my  own  impulse — my  own  feelings ;  and  I  now 
place  this  letter  in  your  hands." 

De  Mauleon  took  a  packet,  unsealed,  from  the  thin  white 
fingers  of  the  Sup^rieure,  and,  as  he  bent  to  receive  it,  lifted 
towards  her  eyes  eloquent  with  a  sorrowful,  humble  pathos, 
in  which  it  was  impossible  for  the  heart  of  a  woman  who  had 
loved  not  to  see  a  reference  to  the  past  which  the  lips  did  not 
dare  to  utter. 

A  faint,  scarce  perceptible  blush  stole  over  the  marble  cheek 
of  the  nun.  But,  with  an  exquisite  delicacy,  in  which  survived 
the  woman  while  reigned  the  nun,  she  replied  to  the  appeal  : 

"  M.  Victor  de  Mauleon,  before,  having  thus  met,  we  part 
forever,  permit  a  poor  religieuse  to  say  with  what  joy — a  joy 
rendered  happier  because  it  was  tearful — I  have  learned  through 
the  Abbe  Vertpre  that  the  honor  which,  as  between  man  and 
man,  no  one  who  had  once  known  you  could  ever  doubt,  you 
have  lived  to  vindicate  from  calumny." 

"  Ah  !  you  have  heard  that — at  last,  at  last !  " 

"  I  repeat — of  the  honor  thus  deferred,  I  never  doubted." 
The  Superieure  hurried  on.  "  Greater  joy  it  has  been  to  me 
to  hear  from  the  same  venerable  source,  that,  while  found 
bravest  among  the  defenders  of  your  country,  you  are  clear 
from  all  alliance  with  the  assailants  of  your  God.  Continue  so, 
f  ontinue  so,  Victor  de  Mauleon." 

She  retreated  to  the  door  and  then  turned  towards  him 
with  a  look  in  which  all  the  marble  had  melted  away;  adding 
with  words  more  formally  nunlike,  yet  unmistakably  womanlike, 
than  those  which  had  gone  before,  "  That  to  the  last  you  may 
be  true  to  God,  is  a  prayer  never  by  me  omitted." 

She  spoke,  and  vanished. 

In  a  kind  of  dim  and  dreamlike  bewilderment  Victor  de 
Mauleon  found  himself  without  the  walls  of  the  convent.  Me- 
chanically, as  a  man  does  when  the  routine  of  his  life  is  present- 
ed to  him,  from  the  first  Minister  of  State  to  the  poor  clown  at  a 


568 


Tllh   FANJSJAA'S. 


surburban  theatre,  dooined  to  appear  at  their  posts,  to  prose  on 
a  Beer  Bill,  or  grin  through  a  horse-collar,  though  their  hearts 
are  bleeding  at  every  pore  with  some  household  or  secret  affliction 
— mechanically  De  Mauleon  went  his  way  towards  the  ramparts, 
at  a  section  of  which  he  daily  drilled  his  raw  recruits.  Pro- 
verbial for  his  severity  towards  those  who  offended,  for  the  cor- 
d.'ality  of  his  praise  of  those  who  pleased  his  soldierly  judg« 
ment,  no  change  of  demeanor  was  visible  that  morning,  save 
that  he  might  be  somewhat  milder  to  the  one,  somewhat  less 
hearty  to  the  other.  This  routine  duty  done,  he  passed  slowly 
towards  a  more  deserted  because  a  more  exposed  part  of  the 
defences,  and  seated  himself  on  the  frozen  sward  alone.  The 
cannon  thundered  around  him.  He  heard  unconsciously  :  from 
time  to  time  an  obus  hissed  and  splintered  close  at  his  feet ; — 
he  saw  with  abstracted  eye.  His  soul  was  with  the  past ;  and, 
brooding  over  all  that  in  the  past  lay  buried  there,  came  over 
him  a  conviction  of  the  vanity  of  the  human  earth-bound  ob- 
jects for  which  we  burn  or  freeze,  far  more  absolute  than  had 
grown  out  of  the  worldly  cynicism  connected  with  his  worldly 
ambition.  The  sight  of  that  face,  associated  with  the  one  pure 
romance  of  his  reckless  youth,  the  face  of  one  so  estranged,  so 
serenely  aloft  from  all  memories  of  youth,  of  romance,  of  pas- 
sion, smote  him  in  the  midst  of  the  new  hopes  of  the  new 
career,  as  the  look  on  the  skull  of  the  woman  he  had  so  loved 
and  so  mourned,  who  disburied  from  her  grave,  smote  the 
brilliant  noble  who  became  the  stern  reformer  of  La  Trappe. 
While  thus  gloomily  meditating,  the  letter  of  poor  Louise  Duval 
was  forgotten.  She  whose  existence  had  so  troubled,  and 
crossed,  and  partly  marred  the  lives  of  others, — she,  scarcely 
dead,  and  already  forgotten  by  her  nearest  of  kin.  Well,  had 
she  not  forgotten,  put  wholly  out  of  her  mind,  all  that  w-as  due 
to  those  much  nearer  to  her  than  is  an  uncle  to  a  niece  ? 

The  short,  bitter,  sunless  day  was  advancing  towards  its 
decline,  before  Victor  roused  himself  with  a  quick  impatient 
start  from  his  reverie,  and  took  forth  the  letter  from  the  dead 
nun. 

It  began  with  expressions  of  gratitude,  of  joy  at  the  thought 
that  she  should  see  him  again  before  she  died,  thank  him  for 
his  past  kindness,  and  receive,  she  trusted,  his  assurance  that 
he  w^ould  attend  to  her  last  remorseful  injunctions.  I  pass 
over  much  that  followed  in  the  explanation  of  events  in  her 
life  sufficiently  known  to  the  reader.  She  stated,  as  the  strong- 
est reason  why  she  had  refused  the  hand  of  Louvier,  her  knowl- 
edge that  she  should  in  due  time  become  a  mother  ;  a  fact  con- 


THE  PARISIANS, 


569 


cealed  from  Victor,  secure  that  he  would  then  urge  her  not  to 
annul  her  informal  marriage,  but  rather  insist  on  the  ceremo- 
nies that  would  render  it  valid.  She  touched  briefly  on  her 
confidential  intimacy  with  Madame  Marigny,  the  exchange  of 
name  and  papers,  her  confinement  in  the  neighborhood  of  Aix, 
the  child  left  to  the  care  of  the  nurse,  the  journey  to  Munich 
to  find  the  false  Louise  Duval  was  no  more.  The  documents 
obtained  through  the  agent  of  her  easy-tempered  kinsman,  the 
late  Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  and  her  subsequent  domestica- 
tion in  the  house  of  the  Von  Rudesheims,  all  this  it  is  needless 
to  do  more  here  than  briefly  recapitulate.  The  letter  then 
went  on  :  "  While  thus  kindly  treated  by  the  family  with  whom 
nominally  a  governess,  I  was  on  the  terms  of  a  friend  with  Sig- 
nor  Ludovico  Cicogna,  an  Italian  of  noble  birth.  He  was  the 
only  man  I  ever  cared  for.  I  loved  him  with  frail  human 
passion.  I  could  not  tell  him  my  true  history,  I  could  not 
tell  him  that  I  had  a  child  ;  esuch  intelligenc  would  have 
made  him  renounce  me  at  once.  He  had  a  daughter, 
still  but  an  infant,  by  a  former  marriage,  then  brought 
up  in  France  He  wished  to  take  her  to  his  house,  and  his 
second  wife  to  supply  the  place  of  her  mother.  What  was  I  to 
do  with  the  child  I  had  left  near  Aix  ?  While  doubtful  and  dis- 
tracted, I  read  an  advertisement  in  the  journals  to  the  effect 
that  a  French  lady,  then  staying  in  Coblentz,  wished  to  adopt 
a  female  child  not  exceeding  the  age  of  six  :  the  child  to  be 
wholly  resigned  to  her  by  the  parents,  she  undertaking  to  rear 
and  provide  for  it  as  her  own.  I  resolved  to  go  to  Coblentz  at 
once.  I  did  so.  I  saw  this  lady.  She  seemed  in  affluent  cir- 
cumstances, yet  young,  but  a  confirmed  invalid,  confined  the 
greater  part  of  the  day  to  her  sofa  by  some  malady  of  the  spine. 
She  told  me  very  frankly  her  story.  She  had  been  a  profes- 
sional dancer  on  the  stage,  had  married  respectably,  quitted 
the  stage,  become  a  widow,  and  shortly  afterwards  been  seized 
with  the  complaint  that  would  probably  for  life  keep  her  a  se- 
cluded prisoner  in  her  room.  Thus  afflicted,  and  without  tie, 
interest,  or  object  in  the  world,  she  conceived  the  idea  of 
adopting  a  child  that  she  might  bring  up  to  tend  and  cherish 
i-.  r  as  a  daughter.  In  this  the  imperative  condition  was,  that 
the  child  should  never  be  resought  by  the  parents.  She  was 
pleased  by  my  manner  and  appearance  :  she  did  not  wish  her 
adopted  daughter  to  be  the  child  of  peasants.  She  asked  nie 
for  no  reference,  made  no  inquiries.  She  said  cordially  that 
she  wished  for  no  knowledge  that,  through  any  indiscretion  of 
her  own,  communicated  to  the  child,  might  lead  her  to  seekth* 


^-jo  THE  PARISIANS. 

discovery  of  her  real  parents.  In  fine,  I  left  Coblentz  on  the 
understanding  that  I  was  to  bring  the  infant,  and,  if  it  pleased 
Madame  Surville,  the  agreement  was  concluded. 

"  I  then  repaired  to  Aix.  I  saw  the  child.  Alas,  unnatural 
mother  that  I  was,  the  sight  only  more  vividly  brought  before 
me  the  sense  of  my  own  perilous  position.  Yet  the  child  was 
lovely, — a  likeness  of  myself,  but  lovelier  far,  for  it  was  a  pure, 
innocent,  gentle  loveliness.  And  they  told  her  to  call  me 
'  Maman.^  Oh,  did  I  not  relent  when  I  heard  that  name  ?  No  ; 
it  jarred  on  my  ear  as  a  word  of  reproach  and  shame.  In  walk- 
ing with  the  infant  towards  the  railway  station,  imagine  my  dis 
may  when  suddenly  I  met  the  man  who  had  been  taught  to  bo 
lieve  me  dead.  I  soon  discovered  that  his  dismay  was  equal  to 
my  own, — that  I  had  nothing  to  fear  from  his  desire  to  claim 
me.  It  did  occur  to  me  for  a  moment  to  resign  his  child  to 
him.  But  when  he  shrank  reluctantly  from  a  half  suggestion 
to  that  effect,  my  pride  was  wounded,  my  conscience  absolved. 
And,  after  all,  it  might  be  unsafe  to  my  future  to  leave  with  him 
any  motive  for  retracing  me.  I  left  him  hastily.  I  have  never 
seen  nor  heard  of  him  more.  I  took  the  child  to  Coblentz. 
Madame  Surville  was  charmed  with  its  prettiness  and  prattle, 
— charmed  still  more  when  I  rebuked  the  poor  infant  for  calling 
me  '  Alatnan,'  and  said",  '  Thy  real  mother  is  here.'  Free  from 
my  trouble,  I  returned  to  the  kind  German  roof  I  had  quitted, 
and  shortly  after  became  the  wife  of  Ludovico  Cicogna. 

"  My  punishment  soon  began.  His  was  a  light.,  fickle, 
pleasure-hunting  nature.  He  soon  grew  weary  of  me.  My  very 
love  made  me  unamiable  to  him.  I  became  irritable,  jealous, 
exacting.  His  daughter,  who  now  came  to  live  with  us,  was 
another  subject  of  discord.  I  knew  that  he  loved  her  better 
than  me.  1  became  a  harsh  stepmother  ;  and  Ludovico's  re- 
proaches, vehemently  made,  nursed  all  my  angriest  passions. 
But  a  son  of  this  new  marriage  was  born  to  myself.  My  pretty 
Luigi !  how  my  heart  became  wrapt  up  in  him  I  Nursing  him, 
I  forgot  resentment  against  his  father.  Well,  poor  Cicogna  fell 
ill  and  died.  I  mourned  him  sincerely  ;  but  my  boy  was  left. 
Poverty  then  fell  on  me, — poverty  extreme.  Cicogna's  sole  ir- 
come  was  derived  from  a  post  in  the  Austrian  dominion  in 
Italy,  and  ceased  with  it.  He  received  a  small  pension  in  coiu- 
peusation  ;  that  died  with  him. 

"  At  this  time,  an  Englishman  with  whom  Ludovico  had 
made  acquaintance  in  Venice,  and  who  visited  often  at  our 
house  in  Verono,  offered  me  his  hand.  He  had  taken  an  ex- 
traordinary liking  to   Isaura,  Cicogna's  daughter  by  his  first 


THE  PARISIANS.  jy, 

marriage.  But  I  think  his  proposal  was  dictated  partly  by 
compassion  for  me,  and  more  by  affection  for  her.  For  the 
sake  of  my  ba\-  Luigi  I  married  him.  He  was  a  good  man,  of 
retired  learned  habits  with  which  I  had  no  sympathy.  His 
companionship  overwhelmed  me  with  ennui.  But  I  bore  it 
patiently  for  Luigi's  sake.  God  saw  that  my  heart  was  as  much 
as  ever  estranged  from  Him,  and  He  took  away  my  all  on 
earth — my  boy.  Then  in  my  desolation  I  turned  to  our  Holy 
Church  for  comfort.  I  found  a  friend  in  the  priest  my  con- 
fesscjr.  I  was  startled  to  learn  from  him  how  guilty  I  had 
been — was  still.  Pushing  to  an  extreme  the  doctrines  of  the 
Church,  he  would  not  allow  that  my  first  marriage,  though  null 
by  law,  was  void  in  the  eyes  of  Heaven.  Was  not  the  death  of 
the  child  I  so  cherished  a  penalt}'  due  to  my  sin  towards  the 
child  I  had  abandoned  ? 

"  These  thoughts  pressed  on  me  night  and  day.  With  the 
consent  and  approval  of  the  good  priest,  I  determined  to  quit 
the  roof  of  M.  Selby  and  to  devote  myself  to  the  discovery  of 
my  forsaken  Julie, 

"  I  had  a  painful  interview  with  M.  Selby.  I  announced 
my  intention  to  separate  from  him.  I  alleged  as  a  reason  my 
conscientious  repugnance  to  live  with  a  professed  heretic — an 
enemy  to  our  Holy  Church,  ^^'hen  M.  Selby  found  that  he 
could  not  shake  my  resolution,  he  lent  himself  to  it  with  the 
forbearance  and  generosit}'  which  he  had  always  exhibited.  On 
our  marriage  he  had  settled  on  me  five  thousand  pounds,  to  be 
absolutely  mine  in  the  event  of  his  death.  He  now  proposed 
to  concede  to  me  the  interest  on  that  capital  during  his  lifCj 
and  he  undertook  the  charge  of  my  stepdaughter  Isaura,  and 
secured  to  her  all  the  rest  he  had  to  leave  ;  such  landed  prop- 
erty as  he  possessed  in   England  passing  to  a  distant  _relative. 

"  So  we  parted,  not  with  hostilit}' — tears  were  shed  on  both 
sides.  I  set  out  for  Coblentz.  Madame  Surville  had  long 
since  quitted  that  town,  devoting  some  years  to  the  round  of 
various  mineral  spas  in  vain  hope  of  cure.  Not  without  some 
difficulty  I  traced  her  to  her  last  residence  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Paris,  but  she  was  then  no  more — her  death  accelerated  liy 
the  loss  of  her  whole  fortune,  which  she  had  been  induced  to 
place  in  one  of  the  numerous  fraudulent  companies  by  which 
so  many  have  been  ruined.  Julie,  who  was  with  her  at  the 
time  of  her  death,  had  disappeared  shortly  after  it — none  cou'd 
tell  me  whither  ;  but,  from  such  hints  as  I  could  gather,  the 
poor  child,  thus  left  destitute,  had  been  betrayed  into  siuful 
courses. 


572 


THE  PARTSTANS. 


"  Probably  I  might  yet  by  searching  inquiry  have  found  hei 
out ;  you  will  say  it  was  my  duty  at  least  to  institute  such  in- 
quiry. No  doubt ;  I  now  remorsefully  feel  that  it  was.  I  did 
not  think  so  at  the  time.  The  Italian  priest  had  given  me  a 
few  letters  of  introduction  to  French  ladies  with  whom,  when 
they  had  sojourned  at  Florence,  he  had  made  acquaintance. 
These  ladies  were  very  strict  devotees,  formal  observers  of 
those  decorums  by  which  devotion  proclaims  itself  to  tne 
world.  They  had  received  me  not  only  with  kindness  but  with 
marked  respect.  They  chose  to  exalt  into  the  noblest  self- 
sacrifice  the  act  of  my  leaving  M.  Selby's  house.  Exaggera- 
ting the  simple  cause  assigned  to  it  in  the  priest's  letter,  they 
represented  me  as  quitting  a  luxurious  home  and  an  idolizing 
husband  rather  than  continue  intimate  intercourse  with  the 
enemy  of  my  religion.  This  new  sort  of  flattery  intoxicated 
me  with  its  fumes.  I  recoile4  from  the  thought  of  shattering 
the  pedestal  to  which  I  had  found  myself  elevated.  What  if  I 
should  discover  my  daughter  in  one  from  the  touch  of  whose 
robe  these  holy  women  would  recoil  as  from  the  rags  of  a 
leper .?  No  ;  it  w'ould  be  impossible  for  me  to  own  her  im- 
possible for  me  to  give  her  the  shelter  of  my  roof.  Nay,  if 
discovered  to  hold  any  commune  with  such  an  outcast,  no  ex- 
planation, no  excuse  short  of  the  actual  truth,  would  avail  with 
these  austere  judges  of  human  error.  And  the  actual  truth 
would  be  yet  deeper  disgrace.  I  reasoned  away  my  conscience. 
If  I  looked  for  example  in  the  circles  in  which  I  had  obtained 
reverential  place,  I  could  find  no  instance  in  which  a  girl  who 
had  fallen  from  virtue  was  not  repudiated  by  her  nearest  rela- 
tives. Nay,  when  I  thought  of  my  own  mother,  had  not  her 
father  refused  to  see  her,  to  acknowledge  her  child,  from  no 
other  offence  than  that  of  a  mesalliance  which  wounded  the 
family  pride  ?  That  pride,  alas  !  was  in  my  ttir-od — my  sole 
inheritance  from  the  family  I  sprang  from. 

"  Thus  it  went  on,  till  I  had  grave  sym?/Vr<c.s  of  a  disease 
which  rendered  the  duration  of  my  life  u/.<jjiUln.  My  con- 
science awoke  and  tortured  me.  I  resolved  lo  lake  the  veil. 
Vanity  and  pride  again  !  My  resolution  vvaj  applauded  by 
those  whose  opinion  had  so  swayed  my  nuiid  ar,d  my  conduct. 
Before  I  retired  into  the  convent  from  wiiich  I  write,  I  made 
legal  provision  as  to  the  bulk  of  the  fortune  vJjch,  by  the 
death  of  M.  Selby,  has  become  absolutely  at  my  d.^posal.  One 
thousand  pounds  amply  sufficed  for  the  donation  to  die  con- 
vent ;  the  other  four  thousand  pounds  are  given  iii  Ut.St  to  the 
eminent  notary,  M.  Nadaud,  Rue .     On  appl)i.ij^  to  him 


THE  PARISIANS.  ^y^ 

you  will  find  that  the  sum,  with  the  accumulated  interest,  is  be 
queathed  to  you, — a  tribute  of  gratitude  for  the  assistance  >ou 
afforded  me  in  the  time  of  your  own  need,  and  the  kindness 
with   which   you   acknowledged    our    relationship   and   com- 
miserated my  misfortunes. 

"  But,  oh,  my  uncle,  find  out — a  man  can  do  so  with  a 
l3cilitynot  accorded  to  a  woman — what  has  become  of  this 
poor  Julie,  and  devote  what  you  may  deem  right  and  just  of 
the  sum  thus  bequeathed  to  place  her  above  want  and  tempta- 
tion. In  doing  so,  I  know  you  will  respect  my  name  :  I  would 
not  have  it  dishonor  you,  indeed. 

"  I  have  been  employed  in  writing  this  long  letter  since 
the  day  I  heard  you  were  in  Paris.  It  has  exhausted  the 
feeble  remnants  of  my  strength.  It  will  be  given  to  you  before 
the  interview  I  at  once  dread  and  long  for,  and  in  that  inter- 
view you  will  not  rebuke  me.  Will  you,  my  kind  uncle  ?  No, 
you  will  only  soothe  and  pity ! 

"  Would  that  I  were  worthy  to  pray  for  others,  that  I 
might  add,  '  May  the  Saints  have  you  in  their  keeping,  and 
lead  you  to  faith  in  the  Holy  Church,  which  has  power  to 
absolve  from  sins  those  who  repent  as  I  do.'  " 

The  letter  dropped  from  Victor's  hand.  He  took  it  up, 
smoothed  it  mechanically  and  with  a  dim,  abstracted,  bewil- 
dered, pitiful  wonder.  Well  might  the  Superieure  have 
hesitated  to  allow  confessions,  betraying  a  mind  so  little  regu- 
lated by  genuine  religious  faith,  to  pass  into  other  hands. 
Evidently  it  was  the  paramount  duty  of  rescuing  from  want 
or  from  sin  the  writer's  forsaken  child,  that  had  overborne 
all  other  considerations  in  the  mind  of  the  woman  and  the 
priest  she  consulted. 

Throughout  that  letter,  what  a  strange  perversion  of  under- 
standing !  what  a  half-unconscious  confusion  of  wrong  and 
right !  —the  duty  marked  out  so  obvious  and  so  neglected  ; 
even  the  religious  sentiment  awakened  by  the  conscience  so 
dividing  itself  from  the  moral  instinct !  the  dread  of  being 
thought  less  religious  by  obscure  comparative  strangers  stronger 
than  the  moral  obligation  to  discover  and  recjaim  the  child 
for  whose  errors  if  she  had  erred,  the  mother  wlio  so  selfishly 
forsook  her  was  alone  responsible  !  even  at  the  last,  at  the 
approach  of  death,  the  love  for  a  name  she  had  never  made 
a  self-sacrifice  to  preserve  unstained  ;  and  that  concluding 
exhortation, — that  reliance  on  a  repentance  in  which  there  was 
so  qualified  a  reparation  ! 

More  would  Victor  de   Mauleon  have  wondered  had   he 


574 


THE  PARISIANS. 


known  those  points  of  similarity  in  character,  and  on  the 
nature  of  their  final  bequests,  between  Louise  Duval  and  the 
husband  she  had  deserted.  By  one  of  those  singular  coinci- 
dences which,  if  this  work  be  judged  by  the  ordinary  rules 
presented  to  the  ordinar}^  novel-reader,  a  critic  would  not 
unjustly  impute  to  defective  invention  in  the  author,  the 
provision  for  this  child,  deprived  of  its  natural  parents  during 
their  lives,  is  left  to  the  discretion  and  honor  of  trustees, 
accompanied  on  the  part  of  the  consecrated  Louise  and  "  the 
blameless  King"  with  the  injunction  of  respect  to  their 
worldly  reputations — two  parents  so  opposite  in  condition,  in 
creed,  in  disposition,  yet  assimilating  in  that  point  of  indi- 
vidual character  in  which  it  touches  the  wide  vague  circle  of 
human  opinion.  For  this,  indeed,  the  excuses  of  Richard 
King  are  strong,  inasmuch  as  the  secrecy  he  sought  was  for 
the  sake,  not  of  his  own  memory,  but  that  of  her  whom  the 
world  knew  only  as  his  honored  wife.  The  conduct  of 
Louise  admits  no  such  excuse  ;  she  dies,  as  she  had  lived,  an 
Egoist.  But,  whatever  the  motives  of  the  parents,  what  is 
the  fate  of  the  deserted  child }  What  revenge  does  the 
worldly  opinion,  which  the.  parents  would  escape  for  them- 
selves, inflict  on  the  innocent  infant  to  whom  the  bulk  of 
their  worldly  possessions  is  to  be  clandestinely  conveyed  / 
Would  all  the  gold  of  Ophir  be  compensation  enough  for 
her? 

Slowly  de  Mauleon  roused  himself,  and  turned  from  the 
solitary  place  where  he  had  been  seated  to  a  more  crowded 
part  of  the  ramparts.  He  passed  a  group  of  young  Aloblots, 
with  flowers  wreathed  round  their  gun-barrels.  "  If,"  said  one 
of  them  gayly,  "  Paris  wants  bread,  it  never  wants  flowers." 
His  companions  laughed  merrily,  and  burst  out  into  a  scurrile 
song  in  ridicule  of  St.  Trochu.  Just  then  an  obus  fell  a  few 
yards  before  the  group.  The  sound  only  for  a  moment 
drowned  the  song,  but  the  splinters  struck  a  man  in  a  coarse, 
ra^ed  dress,  who  had  stopped  to  listen  to  the  singers.  At 
his  sharp  cr}-,  two  men  hastened  to  his  side  :  one  was  Victor 
de  Mauleon;  the  other  was  a  surgeon,  who  quitted  another 
group  of  idlers — National  Guards — attracted  by  the  shriek 
that  summoned  his  professional  aid.  The  poor  man  was 
terribly  wounded.  The  surgeon,  glancing  at  De  Maule'on, 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  muttered,  "  Past  help  !  "  The 
suflferer  turned  his  haggard  eyes  on  the  Vicomte,  and  gasped 
out,  "  M.  de  Mauleon  ?"" 


THE  PARISIANS,  57 c 

"That  is  my  name,"  answered  Victor,  surprised,  and  not 
immediately  recognizing  the  sufferer. 

"  Hist,  Jean  Lebeau  ! — loolc  at  me  :  you  recollect  me  now 
— ^Marc  le  Roux,  concierge  to  the  Secret  Council.  Ay,  I 
found  out  who  you  were  a  long  time  ago — followed  you  home 
from  the  last  meeting  you  broke  up.  But  I  did  not  betray  you, 
or  you  would  have  been  murdered  long  since.     Beware  of  the 

old   set — beware    of — of "     Here  his  voice  broke  off  into 

shrill  exclamations  of  pain.  Curbing  his  last  agonies  with  a 
powerful  effort,  he  faltered  forth — "You  owe  me  a  service — 
see  to  the  little  one  at  home — she  is  starving,"  The  death- 
rale  came  on ;  in  a  few  moments  he  was  no  more. 

Victor  gave  orders  for  the  removal  of  the  corpse,  and 
hurried  away.  The  surgeon,  who  had  changed  countenance 
when  he  overheard  the  name  in  which  the  dying  man  had 
addressed  De  Maule'on,  gazed  silently  after  De  Mauleon's 
retreating  form,  and  then,  also  quitting  the  dead,  rejoined 
the  group  he  had  quitted.  Some  of  those  who  composed  it 
acquired  evil  renown  later  in  the  war  of  the  Communists, 
and  came  to  disastrous  ends  :  among  that  number  the  Pole 
Loubisky  and  other  members  of  the  Secret  Council,  The 
Italian  Raselli  was  there  too,  but,  subtler  than  his  French 
confrei'es,  he  divined  the  fate  of  the  Communists,  and  glided 
from  it — safe  now  in  his  native  land,  destined  there,  no 
doubt,  to  the  funereal  honors  and  lasting  renown  which 
Italy  bestows  on  the  dust  of  her  sons  who  have  advocated 
assassination  out  of  love  for  the  human  race. 

Amid  this  group,  too,  was  a  National  Guard,  strayed  from 
his  proper  post,  and  stretched  on  the  frozen  ground,  and, 
early    though    the  hour,  in  the  profound  sleep  of  intoxication. 

"  So,"  said  Loubisky,  "  you  have  found  your  errand  in 
vain,  Citizen  Le  Noy ;  another  victim  to  the  imbecility  of 
our  generals," 

"  And  partly  one  of  us,"  replied  the  Medecin  des  Paiivres. 
"  You  remember  poor  Le  Roux,  who  kept  the  old  baraqtu 
where  the  Council  of  Ten  used  to  meet  t     Yonder  he  lies." 

"  Don't  talk  of  the  Council  of  Ten,  What  fools  and 
dupes  we  were  made  by  that  vieux  gredin  Jean  Lebeau  ! 
How  I  wish  I  could  meet  him  again  I " 

Gaspard  Le  Noy  smiled  sarcastically,  "So  much  the 
worse  for  you  if  you  did.  A  muscular  and  a  ruthless  fellow 
is  that  Jean  Lebeau  1 "  Therewith  he  turned  to  the  drunken 
sleeper  and  woke  him  with  a  shake  and  a  kick. 


576 


THE  PARISIANS. 


"  Armand — Armand  Monnier,  I  say,   rise,  rub  your  eyes 
What  if  you  are  called  to  your  post  ?     What  if  yon  are  shamed 
as  a  deserter  and  a  coward  ?  " 

Armand  turned,  rose  with  an  effort  from  the  recumbent  to 
tr.e  sitting  posture,  and  stared  dizzily  in  the  face  of  the  Mcdecin 
dci  Patvres. 

"  I  was  dreaming  that  I  had  caught  by  the  throat,"  said  Ar- 
mand, wildly,  "the  arista  \\\\o  shot  my  brother;  and  lo,  theie 
were  two  men,  Victor  do  Mauleon  and  Jean  Lebeau." 

"  Ah  !  there  is  something  in  dreams,"  said  the  surgeon. 
**  Once  in  a  thousand  times  a  dream  comes  true." 


CHAPTER  V. 


The  time  now  came  when  all  provision  of  food  or  of  fuel 
failed  the  modest  household  of  Isaura;  and  there  was  not  only  her- 
self and  the  Venosta  to  feed  and  warm — there  were  the  servants 
whom  they  had  brought  from  Italy  and  had  not  the  heart  now  to 
dismiss  to  the  certainty  of  famine.  True,  one  of  the  three,  the 
man,  had  returned  to  his  native  land  before  the  commencement 
of  the  siege  ;  but  the  two  women  had  remained.  They  support- 
ed themselves  now  as  they  could  on  the  meagre  rations  accord- 
ed ly  the  government.  Still  Isaura  attended  the  ambulance 
to  wr.ich  she  was  attached.  From  the  ladies  associated  with 
her  she  could  really  have  obtained  ample  supplies  ;  but  they 
had  no  conception  of  her  real  state  of  destitution  ;  and  there  was 
a  false  pride  generally  prevalent  among  the  respectable  classes, 
which  Isaura  shared,  that  concealed  distress  lest  alms  should  be 
proffered. 

The  destitution  of  the  household  had  been  carefully  con- 
cealed from  the  parents  of  Gustave  Rameau,  until,  one  day, 
Madame  Rameau,  entering  at  the  hour  at  which  she  general!)', 
and  her  husband  sometimes,  came  for  a  place  by  the  fireside 
and  a  seat  at  the  board,  found  on  the  one  only  ashes,  on  the 
other  a  ration  of  the  black  nauseous  compound  which  had  be- 
come the  substitute  for  bread. 

Isaura  was  absent  on  her  duties  at  the  ambulance  hospital, 
— purposely  absent,  for  she  shrank  from  the  bitter  task  of  mak- 
ing clear  to  the  friends  of  her  betrothed  the  impossibilty  of 
continuing  the  aid  to  their  support  which  their  son  had  neg- 


llih  PARISIAN'S.  py., 

lected  to  contribute  ;  and  still  more  from  the  comment  vvhieli 
she  knew  they  would  make  on  his  conduct  in  absenting  liim- 
seif  so  wholly  of  late,  and  in  time  of  such  trial  and  pressure, 
both  from  them  and  from  herself.  Truly,  she  rejoiced  at  that 
absence  so  far  as  it  affected  herself.  Ever}^  hour  of  the  day 
she  silently  asked  her  conscience  whether  she  were  not  now  ab- 
solved from  a  promise  won  from  her  only  by  an  assurance  that  she 
had  power  to  influence  for  good  the  life  that  now  voluntarily 
separated  itself  from  her  own.  As  she  had  never  loved  Gustave 
so  she  felt  no  resentment  at  the  indifference  his  conduct  mani- 
fested. On  the  contrary,  she  hailed  it  as  a  sign  that  the  annul- 
ment of  their  betrothal  would  be  as  welcome  to  him  as  to  herself. 
And  if  so,  she  could  restore  to  him  the  sort  of  compassionate 
friendship  she  had  learned  to  cherish  in  the  hour  of  illness  and 
repentance.  She  had  resolved  to  seize  the  first  opportunity  he  af- 
forded to  her  of  speaking  to  him  with  frank  and  truthful  plainness. 
But,  meanwhile,  her  gentle  nature  recoiled  from  the  confession 
of  her  resolve  to  appeal  to  Gustave  himself  for  the  rupture  of 
their  engagement. 

Thus  the  Venosta  alone  received  Madame  Rameau  ;  and 
while  that  lady  was  still  gazing  around  her  with  an  emotion  too 
deep  for  immediate  utterance,  her  husband  entered  with  an  ex- 
pression of  face  new  to  him — the  look  of  a  man  who  has  been 
stung  to  anger  and  who  has  braced  his  mind  to  some  stern  de- 
termination. This  altered  countenance  of  the  good-tempered 
bourgeois  was  not,  however,  noticed  by  the  two  women.  The 
Venosta  did  not  even  raise  her  eyes  to  it,  as  with  humbled  ac- 
cents she  said,  "  Pardon,  dear  Monsieur,  pardon,  Madame, 
our  want  of  hospitality  ;  it  is  not  our  hearts  that  fail.  We  kept 
our  state  from  you  as  long  as  we  could.  Now  it  speaks  for  itself  ; 
'  la  fame  e  una  brafta  festin.'  " 

"  Oh,  Madame  !  and  oh,  my  poor  Isaura  !  "  cried  Madamo 
Rameau,  bursting  into  tears,  "So  we  have  all  this  time  been  a 
burden  on  you, — aided  to  bring  such  want  on  you  !  How  can 
we  ever  be  forgiven }  And  my  son, — to  leave  us  thus, — not 
even  to  tell  us  where  to  find  him  !  " 

"  Do  not  degrade  us,  my  wife,"  said  M.  Rameau,  with  unex 
pected  dignity,  "  by  a  word  to  imply  that  we  would  stoop  tc  sue 
for  support  to  our  ungrateful  child.  No,  we  will  not  sta.'vn  ! 
I  am  strong  enough  still  to  find  food  for  you.  I  will  apply  for  ;  e- 
storation  to  the  National  Guard.  They  have  augmented  the  pay 
to  married  men  ;  it  is  now  nearly  two  and  a  half  francs  a  day  to  a 
^ere  {fe/ami/le  and  on  thsit  pay  we  all  can  at  least  live.  Courage 
my  wife  !     I  will  go  at  once  for  employment.     Many  older  men 


578   ;  THE  PARISIANS. 

than  I  are  at  watch  on  the  ramparts,  and  will  march  to  the  battle 
on  the  next  sortie." 

"  It  sliall  not  be  so,"  exclaimed  Madame  Rameau,  vehement- 
ly, and  winding  her  arm  round  her  husband's  neck.  "  I  loved 
my  son  better  than  thee  once — more  shame  to  me.  Now  I 
would  rather  lose  twenty  such  sons  than  peril  thy  life,  my  Jac- 
ques !  Madame,"  she  continued,  turning  to  Venosta,  "  thou  wert 
wiser  than  I.  Thou  wert  ever  opposed  to  the  union  between 
thy  young  friend  and  my  son.  I  felt  sore  with  thee  for  if — a 
mother  is  so  selfish  when  she  puts  herself  in  the  place  of  her 
child.  I  thought  that  only  through  marriage  with  one  so 
pure,  so  noble,  so  holy,  Gustave  could  be  saved  from  sin 
and  evil.  I  w^as  deceived.  A  man  so  heartless  to  his 
parents,  so  neglectful  of  his  affianced,  is  not  to  be  re- 
deemed. I  brought  about  this  betrothal  :  tell  Isaura  that  I 
release  her  from  it.  I  have  watched  her  closely  since  she  was 
entrapped  into  it.  I  know  how  miserable  the  thought  of  it 
made  her,  though,  in  sublime  devotion  to  her  plighted  word,  she 
sought  to  conceal  from  me  the  real  state  of  her  heart.  If  the 
betrothal  bring  such  sorrow,  what  would  the  union  do  !  Tell 
her  this  from  me.     Come,  Jacques,  come  away !  " 

"  Stay,  Madame  !  "  exclaimed  the  Venosta,  her  excitable 
nature  much  affected  by  this  honest  outburst  of  feeling.  "  It 
is  true  that  I  did  oppose,  as  far  as  I  could,  my  poor  Ficcolas 
engagement  with  M.  Gustave.  But  I  dare  not  do  your  bidding. 
Isaura  would  not  listen  to  me.  And  let  us  be  just ;  M.  Gustave 
may  be  able  satisfactorily  to  explain  his  seeming  indiiiference 
and  neglect.  His  health  is  very  delicate  ;  perhaps  he  may  be 
again  dangerously  ill.  He  serves  in  the  National  Guard;  per- 
haps, ' — sne  paused,  but  the  mother  conjectured  the  word  left 
unsaid,  and,  clasping  her  hands,  cried  out  in  anguish  "  Perhaps 
dead  ! — and  we  have  wronged  him  !  Oh,  Jacques,  Jacques  ! 
how  shall  we  find  out — how  discover  our  boy }  Who  can  tell 
us  where  to  search  ?  at  the  hospital — or  in  the  cemeteries  ?  " 
At  <he  last  word  she  dropped  into  a  seat  and  her  whole  frame 
sh;  ok  with  sobs. 

Jacques  approached  her  tenderly,  and,  kneeling  by  her  side, 
said, — 

"  No,  m'amie,  comfort  thyself,  if  it  be  indeed  comfort  to 
learn  that  thy  son  is  alive  and  well.  For  my  part,  I  know 
not  if  I  would  not  rather  he  had  died  in  his  innocent  childhood. 
I  have  seen  him — spoken  to  him.  I  know  where  he  .s  to  be 
found." 

"  You  do,  and  concealed  it  from  me  1     Oh,  Jacques  '  " 


THE  PARISIANS.  ^^n 

"  Listen  to  me,  wife,  and  you  too,  INIadame  ;  for  what  I 
have  to  say  should  be  made  known  to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna. 
Some  time  since,  on  the  night  of  the  famous  sortie,  when  at  my 
post  on  the  ramparts,  I  was  told  that  Gustave  had  joined  him- 
self to  the  most  violent  of  the  Red  Republicans,  and  had 
uttered  at  the  Club  de  la  Vengeance  sentiments,  of  which  I 
will  only  say  that  I,  his  father  and  a  Frenchman,  hung  my 
head  with  shame  when  they  were  repeated  to  me.  I  resolved 
to  go  to  the  club  myself.  I  did.  I  heard  him  speak — heard 
him  denounce  Christianity  as  the  instrument  of  tyrants." 

"Ah!"  cried  the  two  women,  with  a  simultaneous  shudder. 

"  When  the  assembly  broke  up,  I  waylaid  him  at  the  door 
I  spoke  to  him  seriously.  I  told  him  what  anguish  such 
announcement  of  blasphemous  opinions  would  intiict  on  his 
pious  mother.  I  told  him  I  should  deem  it  my  duty  to 
inform  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  and  warn  her  against  the  union 
on  which  he  had  told  us  his  heart  was  bent.  He  appeared 
sincerely  moved  by  what  I  said  ;  implored  me  to  keep  silence 
towards  his  mother  and  his  betrothed,  and  promised,  on  that 
condition,  to  relinquish  at  once  what  he  called  "  his  career  as 
an  orator,'  and  appear  no  more  at  such  execrable  clubs.  On 
this  understanding  I  held  my  tongue.  Why,  with  such  other 
causes  of  grief  and  suffering,  should  I  tell  thee,  poor  wife, 
of  a  sin  that  I  hoped  thy  son  had  repented  and  would  not 
repeat .''  And  Gustave  kept  his  word.  He  has  never,  so  far 
as  I  know,  attended,  at  least  spoken,  at  the  Red  clubs  since 
that  evening." 

"  Thank  Heaven  so  far  !  "  murmured  Madame  Rameau. 

"  So  far,  yes  ;  but  hear  more.  A  little  time  after  I  thus 
met  him,  he  changed  his  lodging,  and  did  not  confide  to  us 
his  new  address,  giving  as  a  reason  to  us  that  he  wished  to 
avoid  all  clue  to  his  discovery  by  that  pertinacious  Made- 
moiselle Julie." 

Rameau  had  here  sunk  his  voice  into  a  whisper,  intended 
only  for  his  wife  ;  but  the  ear  of  the  Venosta  was  fine  enougii 
to  catch  the  sound,  and  she  repeated,  "  Mademoiselle  Julie ! 
Santa  Maria  !  who  is  she  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  M.  Rameau,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders, 
and  wuh  true  Parisian  safig-froid  as  to  such  matters  of  moral- 
ity, "  a  trifle  not  worth  considering.  Of  course  a  good  looking 
garcon  like  Gustave  must  have  his  little  affairs  of  the  heart  be- 
fore he  settles  for* life.  Unluckily,  among  those  of  Gustave 
was  one  with  a  violent-tempered  girl  who  persecuted  him  when 
he  left  her,  and  he   naturally  wished  to  avoid  all  chance  of  a 


580  THE  PARISIANS. 

silly  scandal,  if  on.y  out  of  respect  to  the  dignity -of  \va  fiancee. 
But  I  found  that  was  not  the  true  motive,  or  at  least  the  only 
one,  for  concealment.  Prepare  yourself,  my  poor  wife.  Thou 
hast  heard  of  these  terrible  journals  which  the  decheance  has 
let  loose  upon  us.  Our  unhappy  boy  is  the  principal  writer 
of  one  of  the  worst  of  them,  under  the  name  of  *  Diderot  le 
Jeune.'  " 

"  What !  "  cried  the  Venosta.  "  That  monster  I  The  good 
Abbe  Vertpre'  was  telling  us  of  the  writings  with  that  name 
attached  to  them.  The  Abb^  himself  is  denounced  by  name 
as  one  of  those  meddling  priests  who  are  to  be  constiained 
to  serve  as  soldiers  or  pointed  out  to  the  vengeance  of  the 
canuille.     \%z.\xx?i  ?,  fiancee  a  blasphemer  !  " 

"  Hush,  hush ! "  said  Madame  Rameau,  rising,  very  pale, 
but  self-collected.     "  How  do  you  know  this,  Jacques  ?  " 

"  From  the  lips  of  Gustave  himself.  I  heard  first  of  it 
yesterday  from  one  of  the  young  reprobates  with  whom  he 
used  to  be  familiar,  and  who  even  complimented  me  on  the 
rising  fame  of  my  son  and  praised  the  eloquence  of  his 
article  that  day.  But  I  would  not  believe  him.  I  bought 
the  journal — here  it  is  ;  saw  the  name  and  address  of  the 
printer — went  this  morning  to  the  office — was  there  told  that 
'  Diderot  le  Jeune'  was  within,  revising  the  press — stationed 
myself  by  the  street-door,  and  when  Gustave  came  out  I 
seized  his  arm,  and  asked  him  to  say  Yes  or  No  if  he  was 
the  author  of  this  infamous  article, — this  which  I  now  hold 
in  my  hand.  He  owned  the  authorship  with  pride  ;  talked 
wildly  of  the  great  man  he  was — of  the  great  'things  he  was 
to  do;  said  that,  in  hitherto  concealing  his  true  name,  he  had 
done  all  he  could  to  defer  to  Jie  bigoted  prejudices  of  his 
parents  and  his  fiancee^  and  tlat  if  genius,  like  fire,  would 
find  its  way  out,  he  could  not  heiu  it ;  that  a  time  was  rapidly 
coming  when  his  opinions  woui'i  be  uppermost;  that  since 
October  the  Communists  were  gaining  ascendency,  and  only 
waited  the  end  of  the  siege  to  pit  down  the  present  govern- 
ment, and  with  it  all  hypocrisies  ai  d  shams,  religious  or  social. 
My  wife,  he  was  rude  to  me,  i  isulting ;  but  he  had  been 
drinking-  -that  made  him  incaut!  )us ;  and  he  continued  to 
walk  by  my  side  towards  his  own  lodging,  on  reaching  which 
he  ironically  invited  me  to  enter,  saying  '  I  should  meet  there 
men  who  would  soon  argue  me  O'lt  of  my  obsolete  notions'.' 
You  may  go  to  him,  wife,  now,  if  jou  please.  I  will  not,  nor 
will  I  take  from  him  a  crust  of  bread.  I  came  hither,  deter- 
mined to  tell  the  young  lady  all  this,  if  I  found  her  at  home.     I 


THE  PARISIANS.  rSi 

should  be  a  dishonored  man  if  I  suffered  her  to  be  cheated  intc 
misery.  There,  Madame  Venosta,  there  !  Take  that  journal, 
show  it  *o  Mademoiselle,  and  report  to  her  all  I  have  said." 

M.  kameau,  habitually  the  mildest  of  men,  had,  in  talking, 
worked  himself  up  into  positive  fury. 

His  wife,  calmer  but  more  deeply  affected,  made  a  piteous 
sign  to  the  Venosta  not  to  say  more,  and,  without  other  salu- 
tation or  adieu,  took  her  husband's  arm,  and  led  him  from  the 
house. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Obtaining  from  her  husband  Gustave's  address,  Madame 
Rameau  hastened  to  her  son's  apartment  alone  through  the 
darkling  streets.  The  house  in  which  he  lodged  was  in  a 
different  quarter  from  that  in  which  Isaura  had  visited  him. 
Then,  the  street  selected  was  still  in  the  centre  of  the  beau 
monde — now,  it  was  within  the  precincts  of  t'hat  section  ot 
the  many-faced  capital  in  which  the  beau  fnonde  was  held  in 
detestation  or  scorn  ;  still  the  house  had  i  ertain  pretensions, 
boasting  a  courtyard  and  a  porter's  lodge.  Madame  Rameau, 
instructed  to  mount  au  second,  found  the  door  ajar,  and,  enter- 
ing, perceived  on  the  table  of  the  little  salon  the  remains  of  a 
feast  which,  however  untempting  it  might  have  been  in  happier 
times,  contrasted  strongly  the  meagre  fare  of  which  Gustave's 
parents  had  deemed  themselves  fortunate  to  partake  at  the 
board  of  his  betrothed ;— remnants  of  those  viands  which 
offered  to  the  inquisitive  epicure  an  exi>er\ment  in  food  much 
too  costly  for  the  popular  stomach — dainty  morsels  of  elephant, 
hippopotamus,  and  wolf,  interspersed  with  half  emptied  bottles 
of  varied  and  high-priced  wines.  Passing  these  evidences  of 
unseasonable  extravagance'  with  a  mute  sentiment  of  anger 
and  disgust,  Madame  Rameau  penetrated  into  a  small  cabinet, 
the  door  of  which  was  also  ajar,  and  saw  her  son  stretched  on 
his  bed  half  dressed,  breathing  heavily  in  the  sleep  which  fol- 
lows intoxication.  She  did  not  attempt  to  disturb  him.  She 
placed  herself  quietly  by  his  side,  gazing  on  the  face  which  she 
had  once  so  proudly  contemplated,  now  haggard  and  faded, — • 
still  strangely  beautiful,  though  it  was  the  beauty  of  ruin. 

From  time  to  time  he  stirred  uneasily,  and  muttered  broken 


582  THE  PARISIANS: 

words,  in  which  fragments  of  his  own  delicately  worded  verse 
were  incoherently  mixed  up  with  ribald  slang  addressed  to  im- 
aginary companions.  In  his  dreams  he  was  evidently  living 
over  again  his  late  revel,  with  episodical  diversions  into  the 
poet-world,  of  which  he  was  rather  a  vagrant  nomad  than  a 
settled  cultivator.  Then  she  would  silently  bathe  his  feverish 
temples  with  the  perfumed  water  she  found  on  his  dressing- 
table.  And  so  she  watched  till,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  lit 
woke  up,  and  recovered  the  possession  of  his  reason  with  a 
quickness  that  surprised  Madame  Rameau.  He  was,  indeed, 
one  of  those  men  in  whom  excess  of  drink,  when  slept  off,  is 
succeeded  by  extreme  mildness,  the  effect  of  nervous  exhaus- 
tion, and  by  a  dejected  repentance,  which,  to  his  mother, 
seemed  a  propitious  lucidity  of  the  moral  sense. 

Certainly  on  seeing  her  he  threw  himself  on  her  breast  and 
began  to  shed  tears.  Madame  Rameau  had  not  the  heart  to 
reproach  him  sternly.  But  by  gentle  degrees  she  made  him 
comprehend  the  pain  he  had  given  to  his  father,  and  the  des- 
titution in  which  he  had  deserted  his  parents  and  his  affianced. 
In  his  present  mood  Gustave  was  deeply  affected  by  these  re- 
presentations. He  excused  himself  feebly  by  dwelling  on  the 
excitement  of  the  times,  the  preoccupation  of  his  mind,  the  ex- 
ample of  his  companions ;  but  with  his  excuses  he  mingled 
passionate  expressions  of  remorse,  and  before  daybreak  mother 
and  son  were  completely  reconciled.  Then  he  fell  into  a  tran- 
quil sleep  ;  and  Madame  Rameau,  quite  worn  out,  slept  also  in 
the  chair  beside  him,  her  arm  around  his  neck.  He  awoke  be- 
fore she  did,  at  a  late  hour  in  the  morning,  and,  stealing  from 
her  arm,  went  to  his  escritoire  and  took  forth  what  money  he 
found  there,  half  of  which  he  poured  into  her  lap,  kissing  her 
till  she  awoke. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  henceforth  I  will  work  for  thee  and 
my  father.  Take  this  trifle  now  ;  the  rest  I  reserve  foi 
Isaura." 

"  Joy  !  I  have  found  my  boy  again.  But  Isaura — I  fear 
that  she  will  not  take  thy  money,  and  all  thought  of  her  must 
also  be  abandoned." 

Gustave  had  already  turned  to  his  looking-glass,  and  was' 
arranging  with  care  his  dark  ringlets  :  his  personal  vanity  — 
his  remorse  appeased  by  this  pecuniary  oblation — had  revived. 

"  No,"  he  said  gayly,  "  I  don't  think  I  shall  abandon  her  ; 
and  it  is  not  likely,  when  she  sees  and  hears  me,  that  she  can 
wish  to  abandon  me  !  Now  let  us  breakfast,  and  then  I  will 
go  at  once  to  her." 


THE  PARISIANS. 


SS3 


In  the  mean  while,  Isaura,  on  her  return  to  her  apartment 
at  the  wintry  nightfall,  found  a  cart  stationed  at  the  door,  and 
the  Venosta  on  the  threshold,  superintending  the  removal  of 
various  articles  of  furniture — indeed,  all  such  articles  as  were 
not  absolutely  required. 

"  Oh,  Piccola  /"  she  said  with  an  attempt  at  cheerfulness, 
"  I  did  not  expect  thee  back  so  soon.  Hush  !  I  have  made  a 
famous  bargain.  I  have  found  a  broker  to  buy  these  things 
which  we  don't  want  just  at  present,  and  can  replace  by  new 
and  prettier  things  when  the  siege  is  over  and  we  get  our 
money.  The  brokei  pays  down  on  the  nail,  and  thou  wilt  not 
go  to  bed  without  supper.  There  are  no  ills  which  are  not 
more  supportable  after  food." 

Isaura  smiled  faintly,  kissed  the  Venosta's  cheek,  and  as- 
cended with  weary  steps  to  the  sitting-room.  There  she  seated 
herself  quietly,  looking  with  abstracted  eyes  round  the  bare  dis- 
mantled space  by  the  light  of  the  single  candle. 

When  the  Venosta  re-entered,  she  was  followed  by  the  ser- 
vants, bringing  in  a  daintier  meal  than  they  had  known  for 
days — a  genuine  rabbit,  potatoes,  marrons  glaces,  a  bottle  ol 
wine,  and  a  pannier  of  wood.  The  fire  was  soon  lighted,  the 
Venosta  plying  the  bellows.  It  was  not  till  this  banquet,  of 
which  Isaura,  faint  as  she  was,  scarcely  partook,  had  been  re- 
mitted to  the  two  Italian  women-servants,  and  another  log 
been  thrown  on  the  hearth,  that  the  Venosta  opened  the  sub- 
ject which  was  pressing  on  her  heart.  She  did  this  wirh  a 
joyous  smile,  taking  both  Isaura's  hands  in  her  own,  and  strok- 
ing them  fondly. 

"  My  child,  I  have  such  good  news  for  thee.  Thou  hast 
escaped — thou  art  free  !  "  and  then  she  related  all  that  M. 
Rameau  had  said,  and  finished  by  producing  the  copy  of 
Gustave's  unhallowed  journal. 

When  she  had  read  the  latter,  which  she  did  with  com- 
pressed lips  and  varying  color,  the  girl  fell  on  her  knees — not 
to  thank  Heaven  that  she  would  now  escape  a  union  from 
which  her  soul  so  recoiled — not  that  she  was  indeed  free — but 
to  pray,  with  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks,  that  God  would 
yet  save  to  Himself,  and  to  good  ends,  the  soul  that  she  had 
failed  to  bring  to  Him.  All  previous  irritation  against  Gustave 
was  gone  :  all  had  melted  into  an  ineffable  compassion. 


584  THE  PARISIANS, 


CHAPTER  VII. 

When,  a  little  before  noon,  Gustave  was  admitted  by  the 
-servant  into  Isaura's  salofi,  its  desolate  condition,  stripped  of 
all  its  pretty  feminine  elegancies,  struck  him  with  a  sense  of 
discomfort  to  himself  which  superseded  any  more  remorseful 
sentiment.  The  day  was  intensely  cold  :  the  single  log  on  the 
hearth  did  not  bum  ;  there  were  only  two  or  three  chairs  in  the 
room  ;  even  the  carpet,  which  had  been  of  gayly-colored  Au- 
busson,  was  gone.  His  teeth  chattered  ;  and  he  only  replied 
by  a  dreary  nod  to  the  servant,  who  informed  him  that  Madarne 
Venosta  was  gone  out  and  Mademoiselle  had  not  yet  quitted 
her  own  room. 

If  there  be  a  thing  which  a  true  Parisian  of  Rameau's 
stamp  associates  with  love  of  woman,  it  is  a  certain  sort  of  ele- 
gant surroundings, — a  pretty  boudoir,  a  cheery  hearth,  an  easy 
faufeuil.  In  the  absence  of  such  attributes,  '^ fitgit  retro  Venus." 
If  the  Englishman  invented  the  word  comfort,  it  is  the  Parisian 
who  most  thoroughly  comprehends  the  thing.  And  he  resents 
the  loss  of  it  in  any  house  where  he  has  been  accustomed  to 
look  for  it,  as  a  personal  wrong  to  his  feelings. 

Left  for  some  minutes  alone,  Gustave  occupied  himself  with 
kindling  the  log,  and  muttering,  "  Par  tout  les  diables,  quel 
c/iien  de  rhume  je  vais  attraper  !"  He  turned  as  he  heard  the 
rustle  of  a  robe  and  a  light  slow  step.  Isaura  stood  before 
him.  Her  aspect  startled  him.  He  had  come  prepared  to 
sxpect  grave  displeasure  and  a  frigid  reception.  But  the  ex- 
pression of  Isaura's  face  was  more  kindly,  more  gentle,  more 
tfcnder,  than  he  had  seen  it  since  the  day  she  had  accepted  nis 
suit.  •■'  • 

Knowing  from  his  mother  what  his  father  had  said  to  his 
prejudice,  he  thought  within  himself,  "  After  all,  the  poor  girl 
loves  me  better  than  I  thought.  She  is  sensible  and  enlight- 
ened ;  she  cannot  pretend  to  dictate  an  opinion  to  a  man  like 
me." 

He  approached  with  a  complacent  self-assured  mien,  and 
took  her  hand,  which  she  yielded  to  him  quietly,  led  her  to  one 
of  the  few  remaining  chairs,  and  seated  himself  beside  her. 


'JIIE  PAK/S/ANS.  3S5 

"  Dear  Isaura,"  he  said,  talking  rapidly  all  the  while  he 
performed  this  ceremony,  "  I  need  not  assure  you  of  my  utter 
ignorance  of  the  state  to  which  the  imbecility  of  our  govern- 
ment, and  the  cowardice,  or  rather  the  treachery,  of  our  gen- 
erals, have  reduced  you.  I  only  heard  of  it  late  last  night 
from  my  mother.  I  hasten  to  claim  my  right  to  share  with  you 
the  humble  resources  which  I  have  saved  by  the  'ntellectual  la- 
l)(jrs  that  have  absorbed  all  such  moments  as  my  military 
drudgeries  left  to  the  talents  which,  even  at  such  a  moment, 
paralyzing  minds  less  energetic,  have  sustained  me  :  " — and 
therewith  he  poured  several  pieces  of  gold  and  silver  on  the 
table  beside  her  chair.  • 

"  Gustave,"  then  said  Isaura,  "  I  am  well  pleased  that  you 
thus  prove  that  I  was  not  mistaken  when  I  thought  and  said 
that,  despite  all  appearances,  all  errors,  your  heart  was  good. 
Oh,  do  but  follow  its  true  impulses,  and " 

"  Its  impulses  lead  me  ever  to  thy  feet,"  interrupted  Gus- 
tave, with  a  fervor  which  sounded  somewhat  theatrical  and 
hollow. 

The  girl  smiled,  not  bitterly,  not  mockingly;  but  Gustave 
did  not  like  the  smile, 

"  Poor  Gustave,"  she  said,  with  a  melancholy  pathos  in  her 
soft  voice,  "  do  you  not  understand  that  the  time  has  come 
when  such  commonplace  compliments  ill  suit  our  altered  posi- 
tions to  each  other?  Nay,  listen  to  me  patiently;  and  let  not 
my  words  in  this  last  interview  pain  you  to  recall.  If  either  of 
us  be  to  blame  in  the  engagement  hastily  contracted,  it  is  I. 
Gustave,  when  you,  exaggerating  in  your  imagination  the  na- 
ture of  your  sentiments  for  me,  said  with  such  earnestness  that 
on  my  consent  to  our  union  depended  your  health,  your  life, 
your  career — that  if  I  withheld  that  consent  you  were  lost,  and 
in  despair  would  seek  distraction  from  thought  in  all  from 
.which  your  friends,  your  mother,  the  duties  imposed  upon 
Genius  for  the  good  of  Man  to  the  ends  of  God,  should  with- 
hold and  save  you — when  you  said  all  this,  and  I  believed  it,  I 
felt  as  if  Heaven  commanded  me  not  to  desert  the  soul  which 
appealed  to  me  in  the  crisis  of  its  struggle  and  peril.  Gustave, 
I  repent ;  I  was  to  blame." 

"  How  to  blame  ?  " 

"  I  overrated  my  power  over  your  heart :  I  overrated  still 
more,  perhaps,  my  power  over  my  own." 

"  Ah  1  Your  own  !  I  understand  now.  You  did  not  love 
me  ?  " 

"  I  never  said  that  I  loved  you   in  the  sense  in  which  you 


S86 


THE  PARISIAXS. 


use  the  word.  I  told  3'ou  that  the  love  which  you  have  de- 
scribed in  your  verse,  and  which,"  she  added,  falteringly,  with 
heightened  color  and  with  hands  tightly  clasped,  "  I  have  con- 
ceived possible  in  my  dreams,  it  was  not  mine  to  give.  Yoii 
declared  you  were  satisfied  with  such  affection  as  I  could  be- 
stow. Hush  !  let  me  go  on.  You  said  that  affection  would 
increase,  would  become  love,  in  proportion  as  I  knew  you 
more.  It  has  not  done  so.  Nay,  it  passed  away,  even  before,  in 
this  time  of  trial  and  grief,  I  became  aware  how  different  from 
the  love  you  professed  was  the  neglect  which  needs  no  excuse, 
for  it  did  not  pain  me." 

"You  are  cruel  indeed.  Mademoiselle." 

"  No,  indeed,  I  am  kind.  I  wish  you  to  feel  no  pang  at 
our  parting.  Truly  I  had  resolved,  when  the  siege  terminated 
and  the  time  to  speak  frankly  of  our  engagement  came,  to  tell 
you  that  I  shrank  from  the  thought  of  a  union  between  us,  and 
that  it  was  for  the  happiness  of  both  that  our  promises  should 
be  mutually  cancelled.  The  moment  has  come  sooner  than  I 
thought.  Even  had  I  loved  you,  Gustave,  as  deeply  as — as 
well  as  the  beings  of  Romance  love,  I  would  not  dare  to  wed 
one  who  calls  upon  mortals  to  deny  God,  demolish  His  altars, 
treat  His  worship  as  a  crime.  No  ;  I  would  sooner  die  of  a 
broken  heart,  that  I  might  the  sooner  be  one  of  those  souls 
privileged  to  pray  the  Divine  Intercessor  for  merciful  light  on 
those  beloved  and  left  dark  on  earth." 

"  Isaura !  "  exclaimed  Gustave,  his  mobile  temperament 
impressed,  not  by  the  words  of  Isaura,  but  by  the  passionate 
earnestness  with  which  they  were  uttered,  and  by  the  exquisite 
spiritual  beauty  which  her  face  took  from  the  combined  sweet- 
ness and  fervor  of  its  devout  expression, — "  Isaura,  I  merit  your 
censure,  your  sentence  of  condemnation  ;  but  do  not  ask  me  to 
give  you  back  your  plighted  troth.  I  have  not  the  strength  to 
do  so.  More  than  ever,  more  than  when  first  pledged  to  me,  I 
need  the  aid,  the  companionship,  of  my  guardian  angel.._  You 
were  that  to  me  once  ;  abandon  me  not  now.  In  these  terrible 
times  of  revolution,  excitable  natures  catch  madness  from  each 
other.  A  writer  in  the  heat  of  his  passion  says  much  that  he 
does  not  mean  to  be  literally  taken,  which  in  cooler  moments 
he  repents  and  retracts.  Consider,  too,  the  pressure  of  want, 
ol  hunger.  It  is  the  opinions  that  you  so  condemn  which  alone 
at  this  moment  supply  bread  to  the  writer.  But  say  you  will 
yet  pardon  me, — yet  give  me  trial  if  I  offend  no  more — if  I 
withdraw  my  aid  to  any  attacks  on  your  views,  your  religion— 


THE  PARISIANS.  5S7 

if  I  say,  '  Thy  God  shall  be  my  God,  and  thy  people  shall  be  my 
people.'  " 

"  Alas  !  "  said  Isaura,  softly,  "  ask  thyself  if  those  be  words 
which  I  can  believe  again.  Hush  !  "  she  continued,  checking 
his  answer  with  a  more  kindling  countenance  and  more  impas- 
sioned voice.  "  Are  they,  after  all,  the  words  that  man  should 
address  to  woman  ?  Is  it  on  the  strength  of  woman  that  man 
should  rely .-'  Is  it  to  her  that  he  should  say,  '  Dictate  my 
opinions  on  all  that  belongs  to  the  mind  of  man  ;  change  the 
doctrines  that  I  have  thoughtfully  formed  and  honestly  advo- 
cate ;  teach  me  how  to  act  on  earth,  clear  all  my  doubts  as  to 
my  hopes  of  heaven' .?  No,  Gustave  ;  in  this  task  man  never 
should  repose  on  woman.  Thou  art  honest  at  this  moment, 
my  poor  friend  ;  but  could  I  believe  thee  to-day,  thou  wouldst 
laugh  to-morrow  at  what  woman  can  be  made  to  believe." 

Stung  to  the  quick  by  th-e  truth  of  Isaura's  accusation, 
Gusta-ve  exclaimed  with  vehemence,  "  All  that  thou  sayest  is 
false,  and  thou  knowest  it.  The  influence  of  woman  on  man 
for  good  or  for  evil  defies  reasoning.  It  does  mould  his  deeds 
on  earth  ;  it  does  either  make  or  mar  all  the  future  which  lies 
between  his  life  and  his  gravestone,  and  of  whatsoever  may  lie 
beyond  the  grave.  Give  me  up  now,  and  thou  art  responsible 
•for  me,  for  all  I  do,  it  may  be  against  all  that  thou  deemest 
holy.  Keep  thy  troth  yet  awhile,  and  test  me.  If  I  come  to 
thee  showing  how  I  could  have  injured,  and  how  for  thy  dear 
sake  I  have  spared,  nay,  aided,  all  that  thou  dost  believe  and 
reverence,  then  wilt  thou  dare  to  say,  '  Go  thy  ways  alone — I 
forsake  thee'  ? " 

Isaura  turned  aside  her  face,  but  she  held  out  her  hand — it 
was  as  cold  as  death.  He  knew  that  she  had  so  far  yielded, 
and  his  vanity  exulted  :  he  smiled  in  secret  triumph  as  he 
pressed  his  kiss  on  that  icy  hand  ard  was  gone. 

"  This  is  duty — it  must  be  duty,"  said  Isaura  to  herself. 
"  But  where  is  the  buoyant  delight  that  belongs  to  a  duty 
achieved.'' — where  .''  oh,  where?"  And  then  she  stole  with 
drooping  head  and  heavy  step  into  her  own  room,  fell  on  her 
knees,  and  prayed. 


588  THE  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

In  vain  persons,  be  they  male  or  female,  there  is  a  com 
placent  self-satisfaction  in  any  momentary  personal  success, 
however  little  that  success  may  conduce  to — nay,  however 
much  it  may  militate  against — the  objects  to  which  their 
vanity   itself   devotes  its  more    permanent  desires.       A   vain 

woman  may  be  very  anxious  to   win  A ,  the   magnificent, 

as  a  partner  for  life,  and  yet  feel  a  certain  triumph  when  a 
glance  of  her  eye  has  made  an  evening's  conquest  of  the  piti- 
ful B ,  although  by  that  achievement  she  incurs  the  immi- 
nent  hazard   of   losing  A altogether.     So,  when  Gustave 

Rameau  quitted  Isaura,  his  first  feeling  was  that  of  triumph. 
His  eloquence  had  subdued  her  will :  she  had  not  finally  dis- 
carded him.  But,  as  he  wandered  abstractedlv  in  the  bitins: 
air,  his  self-complacency  was  succeeded  by  mortification  and 
discontent.  He  felt  that  he  had  committed  himself  to  promises 
which  he  was  by  no  means  prepared  to  keep.  True,  the 
promises  were  vague  in  words  ;  but  in  substance  they  were 
perfectly  clear — "  to  spare,  nay,  to  aid  all  that  Isaura  esteemed 
and  reverenced."  How  was  this  possible  to  him  ?  How  could 
he  suddenly  change  the  whole  character  of  his  writings  .' — how 
become  the  defender  of  marriage  and  property,  of  church  and 
religion  ? — how  proclaim  himself  so  utter  an  apostate  ?  If  he 
did,  how  become  a  leader  of  the  fresh  revolution  .-'  how  escape 
being  its  victim  .''  Cease  to  write  altogether  ?  But  then  how  live  ? 
His  pen  was  his  sole  subsistence,  save  thirty  sous  a  day  as  a 
National  Guard — thirty  sous  a  day  to  him  who,  in  order  to  be 
Sybarite  in  tastes,  was  Spartan  in  doctrine.  Nothing  better 
just  at  that  moment  than  Spartan  doctrine — "  Live  on  black 
broth  and  fight  the  enemy,"  And  the  journalists  in  vogue  so 
thrived  upon  that  patriotic  sentiment,  that  they  were  the  last 
persons  compelled  to  drink  the  black  broth  or  to  fight  the 
enemy. 

"Those  women  are  such  idiots  when  they  meddle  in  poli- 
tics," grumbled  between  his  teeth  the  enthusiastic  advocate  ol 
Women's  Rights  on  all  matters  of  love.  "  And,"  he  con- 
tinued, soliloquizing,  "it  is  not  as  if  the  girl  had  any  large  oi 
decent  dot ;  it  is  not  as  if  she  said,  '  In   rewirn   for  the  sacrifice 


THE  PARISIANS.  5S9 

of  your  popularity,  your  prospects,  your  opinions,  I  give  you 
not  only  a  devoted  heart,  but  an  excellent  table  and  a  capital 
fire  and  plenty  of  pocket-money.'  Sacre  bleu  !  when  I  think  of 
that  frozen  salon,  and  possibly  the  leg  of  a  mouse  for  dinner, 
and  a  virtuous  homily  by  way  of  grace,  the  prospect  is  not  al- 
luring ;  and  the  girl  herself  is  not  so  pretty  as  she  was — grown 
very  thin.  Sur  man  ame,  I  think  she  asks  too  much — far  more 
than  she  is  worth.  No,  no  ;  I  had  better  have  accepted  her 
dismissal.     Elle  71' est  pas   digue  de  moi." 

Just  as  he  arrived  at  that  conclusion,  Gustave  Rameau  felt 
the  touch  of  a  light,  a  soft,  a  warm,  yet  a  firm  hand,  on  his 
arm.  He  turned,  and  beheld  the  face  of  the  woman  whom 
through  so  many  dreary  weeks  he  had  sought  to  shun — the 
face  of  Julie  Caumartin.  Julie  was  not,  as  Savarin  had  seen 
her,  looking  pinched  and  wan,  with  faded  robes,  nor,  as  when 
met  in  the  cafe  by  Lemercier,  in  the  faded  robes  of  a  theatre. 
Julie  never  looked  more  beautiful,  more  radiant,  than  she  did 
now;  and  there  was  a  wonderful  heartfelt  fondness  in  her 
voice  when  she  cried,  '•'■  Mon  homme  !  mon  homme  !  seiil  honime 
au  monde  a  mon  cceur,  Gustave,  cheri  adore  !  I  have  found  thee 
■ — at  last — at  last !  "  Gustave  gazed  upon  her,  stupefied.  In- 
voluntarily his  eye  glanced  from  the  freshness  of  bloom  in  her 
face,  which  the  intense  cold  of  the  atmosphere  only  seemed  to 
heighten  into  purer  health,  to  her  dress,  which  was  new  and 
handsome — black — he  did  not  know  that  it  was  mourning — the 
cloak  trimmed  with  costly  sables.  Certainly  it  was  no  mendi- 
cant for  alms  who  thus  reminded  the  shivering  Adonis  of  the 
claims  of  a  pristine  Venus.  He  stammered  out  her  name — 
"Julie  !  " — and  then  he  stopped. 

"  Old,  ta  Julie  !  Petit  tttgrat !  how  I  have  sought  for  thee  ! 
how  1  have  hungered  for  the  sight  of  thee  !  That  monster 
Savarin  !  he  would  not  give  me  any  news  of  thee.  That  is  ages 
ago.  But  at  least  Frederic  Lemercier,  whom  I  saw  since, 
promised  to  remind  thee  that  I  lived  still.  He  did  not  do  so,  or 
I  should  have  seen  thee — n'est-ce pas  i  " 

'•  Certainly,  certainly — only — chere  amie — you  know  that — 
that — as  I  before  announced  to  thee,  I — I — was  engaged  in 
marriage — and — and " 

"  But  are  3-ou  married  ?  " 

"  No,  no.     Hark  !     Take  care — is  not  that   the  hiss  of  an 

"  What  then  ?  Let  it  come.  Would  it  might  slay  us  both 
while  my  hand  is  in  thine  ! " 

"  Ah  !  "  muttered  Gustave,  inwardly,  "  what  a  difference  ! 


^QO  THE  PARISIANS. 

This  is  love  !  No  preaching  here  !  Elle  est  plus  digne  de  mot 
gue  Tautre." 

"  No,"  lie  said,  aloud,  "  I  am  not  married.  Marriage  is  at 
best  a  pitiful  ceremony.  But  if  you  wished  for  news  of  me, 
surely  you  must  have  heard  or  my  effect  as  an  orator  not  de- 
spised in  the  Salle  Favre.  Since.  I  have  withdrawn  from  that 
arena.  But  as  a  journalist  I  flatter  myself  that  I  have  had  a 
beau  sucessJ' 

"Doubtless,  doubtless,  my  Gustave,  my  Poet!  Wherevei 
thou  art,  thou  must  be  first  among  men.  But,  alas  !  it  is  my 
fault — my  misfortune.  I  have  not  been  in  the  midst  of  a  world 
that  perhaps  rings  of  thy  name." 

"  Not  my  name.  Prudence  compelled  me  to  conceal  that. 
Still,  Genius  pierces  under  any  name.  You  might  have  dis- 
covered me  under  my  7wm  de  i>lume.^' 

"  Pardon  me — I  was  always  bete.  But,  oh  !  for  so  many 
weeks  I  was  so  poor — so  destitute.  I  could  go  nowhere,  ex- 
cept— don't  be  ashamed  of  me — except " 

"Yes?     Goon." 

"  Except  where  I  could  get  some  money.  At  first  to  dance 
— you  remember  my  bolero.  Then  I  got  a  better  engagement. 
Do  you  not  remember  that  you  taught  me  to  recite  verses  ? 
Had  it  been  for  myself  alone,  I  might  have  been  contented  to 
starve.  Without  thee,  what  was  life  ?  But  thou  wilt  recollect 
Madeleine,  the  old  bonne  who  lived  with  me.  Well,  she  had 
attended  and  cherished  me  since  I  was  so  high— lived  with  my 
mother.  Mother  !  no,  it  seems  that  Madame  Surville  was  not 
my  mother,  after  all.  But  of  course  I  could  not  let  my  old 
Madeleine  starve  ;  and  therefore,  with  a  heart  heavy  as  lead,  I 
danced  and  declaimed.  My  heart  was  not  so  heavy  when  I 
recited  thy  songs." 

"  My  songs!     Pauvre  ange  f"  exclaimed  the  Poet. 

"  And  then,  too,  I  thought,  '  Ah  this  dreadful  siege  I  He, 
too,  may  be  poor — he  may  know  want  and  hunger  ; '  and  so  all 
I  could  save  from  Madeleine  I  put  into  a  box  icn  thee,  in  case 
thou  shouldst  come  back  to  me  some  day.  Mon  homme,  how 
could  I  go  to  the  Salle  Favre  ?  How  could  I  read  journals, 
Gustave  ?  But  thou  art  not  married,  Gustave  ?  Parole 
d  '/lonneur  /'"' 

"  Parole  dWtonneur/  What  does  that  matter  ?  " 

"  Everything  !  Ah  !  I  am  not  so  mechante,  so  fnaiivaise  fete, 
as  I  was  some  months  ago.  If  thou  wert  married,  I  should 
say,  '  Blessed  and  sacred  be  thy  wife  !  Forget  me.'  But,  as  it 
is,  one  word  more.     Dost  thou  love   the  young  lady,    whoevei 


THE  rARISIAiXS.  eg, 

she  be  ?  or  does  she  love  thee  so  well  that  it  would  he  sin  in 
thee  to  talk  trifles  to  Julie  ?  Speak  as  honestly  as  if  thou  werl 
not  a  poet." 

"  Honestly,  she  never  said  she  loved  me.  I  never  thought 
she  did.  But,  you  see,  I  was  very  ill,  and  my  parents  and 
friends  and  my  physician  said  that  it  was  right  for  me  to 
ai  range  my  life,  and  marry,  and  so  forth.  And  the  girl  had 
money,  and  was  a  good  match.  In  short,  the  thing  was  settled. 
But  oh,  Julie,  she  never  learned  my  songs  by  heart !  She  did 
not  love  as  thou  didst,  and  still  dost.  And — ah  !  well — now  that 
we  meet  again — now  that  I  look  m  thy  face — now  that  I  hear 

thy  voice No,  I  do  not  love  her  as  I  loved,  and  might  yet 

love,  thee.     But — but " 

"Well,  but  ?  Oh,  I  guess.  Thou  seest  me  well  dressed,  no 
longer  dancing  and  declaiming  at  cafes ;  and  thou  thinkest  that 
Julie  has  disgraced  herself  .'  she  is  unfaithful  "i " 

Gustave  had  not  anticipated  that  frankness,  nor  was  the 
idea  which  it  expressed  uppermost  in  his  mind  when,  he   said, 

"  But,  but "     There  were    many  buts,    all   very   confused, 

struggling  through  his  mind  as  he  spoke.  However,  he  an- 
swered as  a  Parisian  sceptic,  not  ill  bred,  naturally  would  an- 
swer— • 

"  My  dear  friend,  my  dear  child  "  (the  Parisian  is  very  fond 
of  the  word  child  or  enfanl  in  addressing  a  woman),  "  I  have 
never  seen  thee  so  beautiful  as  thou  art  now  ;  and  when  thou 
tellest  me,  that  thou  art  no  longer  poor,  and  the  proof  of  what 
thou  sayest  is  visible  in  the  furs,  which,  alas  !  I  cannot  give 
thee,  what  am  I  to  think  ?  " 

"  Oh,  mo7i  homme  !  mon  /lomme  /  thou  art  very  spirtiuel,  and 
that  is  why  I  loved  thee.  I  am  very  bete,  and  that  is  excuse 
enough  for  thee  if  thou  couldst  not  love  me.  But  canst  thou 
look  me  in  the  face  and  not  know  that  my  eyes  could  not  meet 
thine  as  they  do,  if  I  had  been  faithless  to  thee  even  in  a 
thought,  when  I  so  boldly  touched  thine  arm.''  Viens  chezmoi  ; 
come  and  let  me  explain  all.  Only — only,  let  me  repeat,  if  an- 
other has  rights  over  thee  which  forbid  thee  to  come,  say  so 
kindly,  and  I  will  never  trouble  thee  again." 

Gustave  had  been  hitherto  walking  slowly  by  the  side  of  J  ulie, 
amidst  the  distant  boom  of  the  besiegers'  cannon,  while  the  short 
clay  began  to  close  ;  and  along  the  dreary  boulevards  sauntered 
idlers  turning  to  look  at  the  young,  beautiful,  well-dressed 
woman  who  seemed  in  such  contrast  to  the  capital  whose 
former  luxuries  the  "  Ondine  "  of  imperial  Paris  represented. 
He  now  offered  his  arm    to  Julie,  and,  quickening  his  pace, 


592 


THE  FAKISIANS. 


said,  "  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  refuse  to  attend  thee 
home  and  listen  to  the  explanations  thou  dost  generously  con- 
descend to  volunteer." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"Ah,  indeed!  what  a  difference!  what  a  difference!" 
said  Gustave  to  himself  when  he  entered  Julie's  apartment. 
In  her  palmier  days,  when  he  had  first  made  her  acquaint- 
ance, the  apartment  no  doubt  had  been  infinitely  more 
splendid,  more  abundant  in  silks  and  fringes  and  fiowers  and 
nicknacks ;  but  never  had  it  seemed  so  cheery  and  comfort- 
able and  home-like  as  now.  What  a  contrast  to  Isaura's  dis- 
mantled •  chilly  salon !  She  drew  him  towards  the  hearth, 
on  which,  blazing  though  it  was,  she  piled  fresh  billets, 
seated  him  in  the  easiest  of  easy-chairs,  knelt  beside  him, 
and  chafed  his  numbed  hands  in  hers  ;  and,  as  her  bright 
eyes  fixed  tenderly  on  his,  she  looked  so  young  and  so  inno- 
cent !  You  would  not  then  have  called  her  the  "  Ondine  of 
Paris." 

But  when,  a  little  while  after,  revived  by  the  genial 
warmth  and  moved  by  the  charm  of  her  beauty,  Gustave 
passed  his  arm  round  her  neck  and  sought  to  draw  her  on 
his  lap,  she  slid  from  his  embrace,  shaking  her  head  gently, 
and  seated  herself  with  a  pretty  air  of  ceremonious  decorum, 
at  a  little  distance. 

Gustave  looked  at  her  amazed. 

"  Causotis"  said  she,  gravely  ;  "  thou  wouldst  know  why  I 
am  so  well  dressed,  so  comfortably  lodged,  and  I  am  longing 
to  explain  to  thee  all.     Some  days  ago  I  had  just  finished  my 

performance  at  the  Caf^ ,  and  was  putting  on  my  shaw', 

when  a  tall  Monsieur,  y^r/  bel  homme,  with  the  air  of  a.  gixviJ. 
seigneur,  entered  the  cafe,  and,  approaching  me  politely,  said, 
'I  think  I  have  the  honor  to  address  Mademoiselle  Julie  Can 
martin?'  'That  is  my  name,'  I  said  surprised;  and,  looking 
at  him  more  intently,  I  recognized  his  face.  He  had  come 
into  the  cafe  a  few  days  before  with  thine  old  acquaintance 
Frederic  Lemercier,  and  stood  by  when  I  asked  Frederic  to 
give  me  news  of  thee.  'Mademoiselle,'  he  continued,  with  a 
serious  melancholy  smik,  '  I  shall  startle  you  when  I  say  that 


THE  PARISIANS.  ^^3 

I  am  appointed  to  act  as  your  guardian  by  the  last  request  of 
your  mother.'  '  Of  Madame  Surville  ? '  '  Madame  Surville 
adopted  you,  but  was  not  your  mother.  We  cannot  talk  at 
ease  here.     Allo\'  me  to  request  that  you  will  accompany  me 

to   Monsieur   N ,  the  avoue.     It  is   not  very  far  from  this  ; 

and  by  the  way  I  will  tell  }ou  some  news  that  may  sadden,  and 
some  news  that  may  rejoice.' 

"  There  was  ai.  earnestness  in  the  voice  and  look  of  this 
Monsieur  that  impressed  me.  He  did  not  offer  me  his  arm  ; 
but  I  walked  by  his  side  in  the  direction  he  chose.  As  wo 
walked,  he  told  me  in  a  very  few  words  that  my  mother  had 
been  separated  from  her  husband,  and  for  certain  family 
reasons  had  found  it  so  difficult  to  rear  and  provide  for  me 
herself  that  she  had  accepted  the  offer  of  Madame  Surville 
to  adopt  me  as  her  own  child.  While  he  spoke,  there  came 
dimly  back  to  me  the  remembrance  of  a  lady  who  had  taken 
me  from  my  first  home,  where  I  had  been,  as  I  understood,  at 
nurse,  and  left  me  with  poor  dear  Madame  Surville,  saying, 
'  This  is  henceforth  your  mamma.'  I  never  again  saw  that 
lady.  It  seems  that  many  years  afterwards  my  true  mother 
desired  to  regain  me.  Madame  Surville  was  then  dead.  She 
failed  to  trace  me  out,  owing,  alas  !  to  my  own  faults  and 
change  of  my  name.  She  then  entered  a  nunnery,  but,  before 
doing  so,  assigned  a  sum  of  one  hundred  thousand  francs  to 
this  gentleman,  who  was  distantly  connected  with  her,  with 
full  power  to  him  to  take  it  to  himself,  or  give  it  to  my  use 
should  he  discover  me,  at  his  discretion.  '  I  ask  you,'  con- 
tinued the  Monsieur,  '  to  go  with  me  to  Monsieur  N 's,  be- 
cause the  sum  is  still  in  his  hands.  He  will  confirm  my 
statement.  All  that  I  have  now  to  say  is  this  :  If  you  accept 
my  guardianship,  if  you  obey  implicitly  my  advice,  I  shall 
consider  the  interest  of  this  sum  which  has  accumulated  since 

deposited  with  Monsieur  N due  to  you ;  and  the  capital 

will  be  your  dot  on  marriage,  if  the  marriage  be  with  my 
consent.'  '* 

Gustave  had  listened  very  attentively,  and  without  inter- 
ruption, till  now — when  he  looked  up,  and  said,  with  his 
customary  sneer,  "  Did  your  Monsieur,  fort  bel  hotnme,  you 
say,  inform  you  of  the  value  of  the  advice,  rather  of  the  com- 
mands, 5^ou  were  implicitly  to  obey  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Julie  ;  "  not  then,  but  later.  Let  me  go  on. 

We  arrived  at  Monsieur  N 's,  an  elderly  grave  man.     He 

said  that  all  he  knew  was  that  he  held  the  money  in  trust  fof 
the   Monsieur  with  me,  to  be  given  to  him,  with  the  accumu- 


^g^  THE  PARISIANS. 

lations  of  interest,  on  the  death  of  the  lady  who  had  deposited 
it.  If  that  Monsieur  had  instructions  how  to  dispose  of  the 
money,  they  were  not  known  to  him.  All  he  had  to  do  was  to 
transfer  it  absolutely  to  him  on  the  proper  certificate  of  the 
lady's  death.  So  you  see,  Gustave,  that  the  Monsieur  could 
have  kept  all  from  me  if  he  had  liked." 

"  Your  Monsieur  is  very  generous.  Perhaps  you  will  now 
tell  me  his  name." 

"No;  he  forbids  me  to  do  it  yet." 

"  And  he  took  this  apartment  for  you,  and  gave  you  the 
money  to  buy  that  smart  dress  and  these  furs.  Bah  !  mon 
t'ufani,  why  try  to  deceive  me  ?  Do  I  not  know  my  Paris  .-* 
A  fort  bel  homme  does  not  make  himself  guardian  to  a  forte 
h'lle  file  so  young  and  fair  as  Mademoiselle  Julie  Caumartin 
without  certain  considerations  which  shall  be  nameless,  like 
himself." 

Julie's  eyes  flashed.  "  Ah,  Gustave  '  ah.  Monsieur  !  "  she 
said,  half  angrily,  half  plaintively,  "  I  see  that  my  guardian 
knew  you  better  than  I  did.  Never  mind ;  I  will  not  reproach. 
Thou  hast  the  right  to  despise  me." 

"  Pardon  !  I  did  not  mean  to  offend  thee,"  said  Gustave, 
somewhat  disconcerted.  "  But  own  that  thy  story  is  strange. 
And  this  guardian,  who  knows  me  better  than  thou — does  he 
know  me  at  all  ?     Didst  thou  speak  to  him  of  me  .?  " 

"  How  could  I  help  it  ?  He  says  that  this  terrible  war,  in 
which  he  takes  an  active  part,  makes  his  life  uncertain  from 
day  to  day.  He  wished  to  complete  the  trust  bequeathed  to 
him  by  seeing  me  safe  in  the  love  of  some  worthy  man  who  " 
— she  paused  for  a  moment  with  an  expression  of  compressed 
anguish,  and  then  hurried  on — "  who  would  recognize  what 
was  good  in  me — would  never  reproach  me  for — for — the 
past.  I  then  said  my  heart  was  thine  :  I  could  never  marry 
any  one  but  t.iee." 

"  Marr)'  me  !  "  faltered  Gustave — "  marr}'  !  " 

"  And,"  continued  the  girl,  not  heeding  his  interruption,  '*  he 
said  thou  wert  not  the  husband  he  would  choose  for  me  ;  that 
thou  wert  not — no,  I  cannot  wound  thee  by  repeating  what  46 
said  unkindly,  unjustly.  He  bade  me  think  of  thee  no  more.  I 
said  again.  That  is  impossible." 

"  But,"  resumed  Rameau,  with  an  affected  laugh,  "  why 
think  of  anything  so  formidable  as  marriage  ?  Thou  lovesrme, 
and "     He    approached    again,   seeking  to     embrace  her. 

She  recoiled.  "  No,  Gustave,  no.  I  have  sworn — sworn 
solemnly  by  the  memory  of  my  lost  mother — that  I  will   nevei 


TI/I-:  FAKISIAXS.  ^g^ 

sin  again.  I  will  never  be  to  thee  other  *,han  thy  friend — or 
thy  wife.'' 

Before  Gustave  could  reply  to  these  words,  which  took  him 
wholly  by  surprise,  there  was  a  ring  at  the  outer  door,  and  the 
old  bonne  ushered  in  Victor  de  Mauleon.  He  halted  at  'he 
threshold,  and  his  brow  contracted. 

"  So  you  have  already  broken  faith  with  me.  Made- 
moiselle ?  " 

"No,  Monsieur,  I  have  not  broken  faith,"  cried  Julie,  pas- 
sionately, "  I  told  you  that  I  wc-ald  not  seek  to  find  out  Mon- 
sieur Rameau,  I  did  not  seek,  but  I  met  him  unexpectedly.  I 
owed  to  him  an  explanation.  I  invited  him  here  to  give  that 
explanation.  Without  it,  what  would  he  have  thought  of  me  ? 
Now  he  may  go,  and  I  will  never  admit  him  again  without 
your  sanction." 

The  Vicomte  turned  his  stern  look  upon  Gustave,  who, 
though,  as  we  know,  not  wanting  in  personal  courage,  felt 
cowed  by  his  false  position  ;  and  his  eye  fell,  quailed  before  De 
Mauldon's  gaze. 

"  I^eave  us  for  a  few  minutes  alone.  Mademoiselle,"  said  the 
Vicomte.  "  Nay,  Julie,"  he  added,  in  softened  tones,  "  fear 
nothing.  I,  too,  owe  explanation — friendly  explanation  —to 
M,  Rameau." 

With  his  habitual  courtesy  towards  women,  he  extended  his 
hand  to  Julie  and  led  her  from  the  room.  Then,  closing  the 
door,  he  seated  himself,  and  made  a  sign  to  Gustave  to  do  the 
same. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  De  Mauleon,  "  excuse  me  if  I  detain  you. 
A  very  few  words  will  suffice  for  our  present  interview.  I  take 
it  for  granted  that  Mademoiselle  has  told  you  that  she  is  no 
child  of  Madame  Surville's  ;  that  her  own  mother  bequeathed 
her  to  my  protection  and  guardianship,  with  a  modest  fortune 
which  is  at  my  disposal  to  give  or  withhold.  The  little  I  have 
'seen  already  of  Mademoiselle  impresses  me  with  sincere  in- 
terest in  her  fate.  I  look  with  compassion  on  what  she  may 
have  been  in  the  past  ;  I  anticipate  with  hope  what  she  may  be 
in  !he  future.  I  do  not  ask  }-ou  to  see  her  in  either  with  my  eyes. 
I  r.ay  frankly  that  it  is  my  intention,  and,  I  may  add,  my  resolve, 
that  the  ward  thus  left  to  my  charge  shall  be  henceforth  satfe 
from  the  temptations  that  have  seduced  her  poverty,  her  inex- 
perience, her  vanity  if  you  will,  but  have  not  yet  corrupted  her 
heart.  Bref,  I  must  request  you  to  give  me  your  word  of  honor 
that  you  will  hold  no  further  communication  with  her.  T  can 
allow  no  sinister  influence  to  stand  between  her  fate  and  hohor." 


^g6  THE  PARISIANS. 

"  You  speak  well  and  nobly,  M.  le  Vicomte,"  said  Rameau, 
"  and  I  give  the  promise  yol^exact."  He  added,  feelingly,  '*  It 
is  true  her  heart  has  never  been  corrupted.  That  is  good, 
affectionate,  unselfish  as  a  child's.  J''ai  I  honneur  de  voiis  saluer. 
M.  le  Vicomte." 

He  bowed  with  a  dignity  unusual  to  him,  and  tears  were  \v 
his  eyes  as  he  passed  by  De  Mauleon  and  gained  "he  ante-room 
There  a  side-door  suddenly  opened,  and  Julie's  face,  anxious, 
eager,  looked  forth. 

Gustave  paused  :  '■'  Adieu,  Mademoiselle  !  Though  we  may 
never  meet  again, — though  our  fates  divide  us, — believe  me  that 
I  shall  ever  cherish  your  memory — and " 

The  girl  interrupted  him,  impulsively  seizing  his  arm,  and 
looking  him  in  the  face  with  a  wild  fixed  stare. 

"  Hush  !  dost  thou  mean  to  say  that  we  are  parted, — parted 
forever  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  "  said  Gustave,  "  what  option  is  before  us  ?  Your 
guardian  rightly  forbids  my  visits  ;  and,  even  were  I  free  to 
offer  you  my  hand,  you  yourself  say  that  I  am  not  a  suitor  he 
would  approve." 

Julie  turned  her  eyes  towards  De  Mauldon,  who,  following 
Gustave  into  the  anteroom,  stood  silent  and  impassive,  leaning 
against  the  wall. 

He  now  understood  and  replied  to  the  pathetic  appeal  in 
the  girl's  eyes. 

'•'  My  young  ward,"  he  said,  "  M.  Rameau  expresses  himself 
with  propriety  and  truth.  Suffer  him  to  depart.  He  belongs 
to  the  former  life  ;  reconcile  yourself  to  the  new." 

He  advanced  to  take  her  hand,  making  a  sign  to  Gustave  to 
depart.  But  as  he  approached  Julie  she  uttered  a  weak,  piteous 
wail,  and  fell  at  his  feet  senseless.  De  Mauleon  raised  and 
carried  her  into  her  room,  where  he  left  her  to  the  care  of  the 
old  bonne.  On  re-entering  the  anteroom,  he  found  Gustavo,  still 
lingering  by  the  outer  door. 

"  You  will  pardon  me.    Monsieur,"  he   said  to  the  Vicomte, 

"  but  in  fact   I   feel  so  unhappy.     Has   she ?      You  see, 

you  see  that  there  is  danger  to  her  health,  perhaps  to  her  reason, 
in  so  abrupt  a  separation,  so  cruel  a  rupture  between  us.  Let 
me  call  again,  or  I  may  not  have  strengih  to  keep  my  prom- 
ise." 

De  Mauleon  remained  a  few  minutes  musing.  Then  he  said 
in  a  whisper,  "  Come  back  into  the  salon.     Let  us  talk  frankly." 


THE  PAKIS/AKS.  cqj 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  M.  Rameau,"  said  De  Mauldon,  when  the  two  men  had 
reseated  themselves  in  the  salon,  "  I  will  honestly  say  that  my 
desire  is  to  rid  myself  as  soon  as  I  can  of  the  trust  of  guardian 
to  this  young  lady.  Playing  as  I  do  with  fortune ,  my  only 
stake  against  her  favors  is  my  life.  I  feel  as  if  it  were  my  duty 
to  see  that  Mademoiselle  is  not  left  alone  and  friendless  in  the 
world  at  my  decease.  I  have  in  my  mind  for  her  a  husband 
that  I  think  in  every  way  sui-table  :  a  handsome  and  brave 
young  fellow  in  my  battalion,  of  respectable  birth,  without 
any  living  relations  to  consult  as  to  his  choice.  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that  if  Julie  married  him  she  need  never  fear 
a  reproach  as  to  her  antecedents.  Her  dot  would  suffice  to 
enable  him  to  realize  his  own  wish  of  a  country  town  in  Nor- 
mandy. *  And  in  that  station  Paris  and  its  temptations  wou'  a 
soon  pass  from  the  poor  child's  thoughts,  as  an  evil  dream. 
But  I  cannot  dispose  of  her  hand  without  her  own  consent ;  and  if 
she  is  to  be  reasoned  out  of  her  fancy  for  you,  I  have  no  time  to 
devote  to  the  task.  I  come  to  the  point.  You  are  not  the  man 
I  would  choose  for  her  husband.  But,  evidently,  you  are  the 
man  she  would  choose.  Are  you  disposed  to  marry  her  ?  You 
hesitate,  very  naturally  ;  I  have  no  right  to  demand  an  im- 
mediate answer  to  a  question  so  serious.  Perhaps  you  will 
think  over  it,  and  let  me  know  in  a  day  or  two  ?  I  take  it  for 
granted  that  if  you  were,  as  I  heard,  engaged  before  the  siege  to 
marrv  the  Signora  Cicogna,  that  engagement  is  annulled." 

*  Why  take  it  for  granted  ?  "  asked  Gustave,  perplexed. 

*  Simply  because  I  find  you  here.  Nay,  spare  explanations 
and  excuses.  I  quite  understand  that  you  were  invited  to 
come.  But  a  man  solemnly  betrothed  to  a  demoiselle  like  the 
Signora  Cicogna,  in  a  time  of  such  dire  calamity  and  peril, 
could  scarcely  allow  himself  to  be  tempted  to  accept  the  in- 
vitation of  one  so  beautiful,  and  so  warmly  attached  to  him, 
as  is  Mademoiselle  Julie ;  and,  on  witnessing  the  passionate 
strength  of  *h=it  attachment,  say  that  he  cannot  keep  a  prom- 
ise not  to  repeat  his  visits.  But  if  I  mistake,  and  you  are  still 
betrothed  >  the  Signorina,  of  couise  all  discussion  is  at  an  end." 


598  THE  PARISIAA'S. 

Gustavc  hung  his  head  in  some  shame,  and  in  much  be- 
wildered doubt. 

l"he  practised  observer  of  men's  characters,  and  of  shift- 
ing phases  of  mind,  glanced  at  the  poor  poet's  perturbed  counte- 
nance with  a  half-smile  of  disdain. 

"  It  is  for  you  to  judge  how  far  the  very  love  to  you  so 
ingenuously  evinced  by  my  ward — how  far  the  reasons  against 
marriage  with  one  whose  antecedents  expose  her  to  reproach — . 
should  influence  one  of  your  advanced  opinions  upon  social 
ties.  Such  reasons  do  not  appear  to  have  with  artists  the 
same  weight  they  have  with  the  bourgeoisie.  I  have  but  to  add 
that  the  husband  of  Julie  will  receive  with  her  hand  a  dot  of 
nearly  one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  francs ;  and  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that  that  fortune  will  be  increased — how 
much  I  cannot  guess — when  the  cessation  of  the  siege  will 
allow  communication  with  England.  One  word  more.  I  should 
wish  to  rank  the  husband  of  my  ward  in  the  number  of  my 
friends.  If  he  did  not  oppose  the  political  opinions  with  which 
I  identify  my  own  career,  I  should  be  pleased  to  make  an)'  rise 
in  the  world  achieved  by  me  assist  to  the  raising  of  himself. 
But  my  opinions,  as  during  the  time  we  were  brought  together 
you  were  made  aware,  are  those  of  a  practical  man  of  the  world, 
and  have  nothing  in  common  with  Communists,  Socialists, 
Internationlists,  or  whateversect  would  place  the  aged  societies 
of  Europe  in  Medea's  caldron  of  youth.  At  a  mor/.ent  like  the 
present,  fanatics  and  dreamers  so  abound,  that  the  number  of 
such  sinners  will  necessitate  a  general  amnesty  when  order  is 
restored.  What  a  poet  so  young  as  you  may  have  written  or 
said  at  such  a  time  will  be  readily  forgotten  and  forgiven  a 
year  or  two  hence,  provided  he  does  not  put  his  notions  into 
violent  action.  But  if  you  choose  to  persevere  in  the  views  you 
now  advocate,  so  be  it.  They  will  not  make  poor  Julie  less  a 
believer  in  your  wisdom  and  genius  Only  they  will  separate 
you  from  me,  and  a  day  may  come  when  I  should  have  the 
painful  duty  of  ordering  you  to  be  shot — Dii  meliora.  Think 
over  all  I  have  thus  frankly  said.  Give  me  your  answer  within 
forty-eight  hours  ;  and  meanwhile  hold  no  communication  with 
ray  ward.     I  have  the  honor  to  wish  you  good-day." 


THE  PARISIANS. 


S99 


CHAPTER  XL 

The  short  grim  day  was  closing  when  Gustave,  quitting 
Julie's  apartment,  again  found  himself  in  the  streets.  His 
thoughts  were  troubled  and  confused.  He  was  the  more 
affected  by  Julie's  impassioned  love  for  him,  by  the  contrast 
with  Isaura's  words  and  manner  in  their  recent  interview. 
His  own  ancient  fancy  for  the  "  Ondine  of  Paris"  became 
revived  by  the  difhculties  between  their  ancient  intercourse 
which  her  unexpected  scruples  and  De  Maul^on's  guardian- 
ship interposed.  A  witty  writer  thus  defines  une  passion,  ''•  une 
caprice  viflammee par  des  obstacles^  In  the  ordinary  times  of 
peace,  Gustave,  handsome,  aspiring  to  reputable  position  in 
the  beau  mondc,  would  not  have  admitted  any  considerations  to 
compromise  his  station  by  marriage  with  Apiguta/itt'.  But  now 
the  wild  political  doctrines  he  had  embraced  separated  his 
ambition  from  that  beau  moftiie,  and  combined  it  with  ascendency 
over  the  revolutionists  of  the  populace — a  direction  which  he 
must  abandon  if  he  continued  his  suit  to  Isaura.  Then,  too, 
the  immediate  possession  of  Julie's  dot  was  not  without  tempta- 
tion to  a  man  who  was  so  fond  of  his  personal  comforts,  and 
who  did  not  see  where  to  turn  for  a  dinner,  if,  obedient  to 
lsaura''s  "  prejudices,"  he  abandoned  his  profits  as  a  writer  in 
the  revolutionary  press.  The  inducements  for  withdrawal  from 
the  cause  he  had  espoused,  held  out  to  him  with  so  haughty  a 
coldness  by  De  Maule'on,  were  not  wholly  without  force,  though 
they  irritated  his  self-esteem.  He  was  dimly  aware  of  the 
Vicomte's  masculine  talents  for  public  life ;  and  the  high 
reputation  he  had  already  acquired  among  military  authorities, 
and  even  among  experienced  and  thoughtful  civilians,  had 
weight  upon  Gustave's  impressionable  temperament.  But 
though  De  Mauldon's  implied  advice  here  coincided  in  much 
with  the  tacit  compact  he  had  made  with  Isaura,  it  alienated 
him  more  from  Isaura  herself,  for  Isaura  did  not  bring  to  him 
the  fortune  which  would  enable  him  to  suspend  his  lucubrations, 
watch  the  turn  of  events,  and  live  at  ease  in  the  meanwhile  ; 
and  the  dot  to  be  received  with  De  Maul^on's  ward  had  those 
advantages. 

While    thus   meditating,  Gustave  turned   into  one  of  the 


t)00  THE  PARISIANS. 

caniines  still  open,  to  brighten  his  intellect  with  a  petit  verre^ 
and  there  he  found  the  two  colleagues  in  the  extinct  Council 
of  Ten,  Paul  Grimm  and  Edgar  Ferrier.  With  the  last  of  these 
revolutionists  Gustave  had  become  intimately  lie.  They  wrote 
in  the  same  journal,  and  he  willingfy  accepted  a  distraction 
from  his  self-conflict  which  Edgar  offered  him  in  a  dinner  at 
the  Cafe  Riche,  which  still  offered  its  hospitalities  at  no 
exorbitant  price.  At  this  repast,  as  the  drink  circulated, 
Gustave  waxed  confidential.  He  longed,  poor  youth,  for  an 
adviser.  Could  he  marr)'  a  girl  who  had  been  a  ballet  dancer, 
and  who  had  come  into  an  unexpected  heritage  ?  "  £s-iu  fou 
d'en  douter  ?  "  cried  Edgar.  "  What  a  sublime  occasion  to 
manifest  thy  scorn  of  the  miserable  banalites  of  the  bourgeoisie  1 
It  will  but  increase  thy  moral  power  over  the  people.  And 
then  think  of  the  money.  What  an  aid  to  the  cause  !  What 
a  capital  for  the  launch  ! — journal  all  thine  own !  Besides, 
when  our  principles  triumph — as  triumph  they  must — what 
would  be  marriage  but  a  brief  and  futile  ceremony,  to  be 
broken  the  moment  thou  hast  cause  to  complam  of  thy  wife  or 
chafe  at  the  bond  ?  Only  get  the  dot  into  thine  own  hands. 
L' amour  passe — reste  la  cassette." 

Though  there  was  enough  of  good  in  the  son  of  Madame 
Rameau  to  revolt  at  the  precise  words  in  which  the  counsel 
was  given,  still,  as  the  fumes  of  the  punch  yet  more  addled 
his  brains,  the  counsel  itself  was  acceptable  ;  and  in  that  sort 
of  maddened  fury  which  intoxication  produces  in  some  ex- 
citable temperaments,  as  Gustave  reeled  home  that  night 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  stouter  Edgar  Ferrier,  he  insisted  on 
going  out  of  his  way  to  pass  the  house  in  which  Isaura 
lived,  and,  pausing  under  her  window,  gasped  out  some 
verses  of  a  wild  song,  then  much  in  vogue  among  the  votaries 
of  Felix  Pyat,  in  which  everything  that  existent  society  deems 
sacred  was  reviled  in  the  grossest  ribaldry.  Happily,  Isaura's; 
ear  heard  it  not.  The  girl  was  kneeling  by  her  bedside,  ab- 
sorbed in  prayer. 


CHAPTER  XH. 

Three  days  after  the  evening  thus  spent  by  Gustave 
Rameau,  Isaura  was  startled  by  a  vi^it  from  M.  de  Mauldon. 
She  had  not  seen  him  since  the  commencement  of  the  siege, 


THE  PARISIANS.  60 1 

and  she  did  not  recognize  him  at  first  glance  in  nis  military 
uniform. 

"  I  trust  you  will  pardon  my  intrusion,  Mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  in  the  low  sweet  voice  habitual  to  him  in  his  gentler 
moods,  "  but  I  thought  it  became  me  to  announce  to  you  the 
decease  of  one  who,  I  fear,  did  not  discharge  with  much 
kindness  the  duties  her  connection  with  you  imposed.  Your 
fathei's  second  wife,  afterwards  Madame  Selby,  is  no  more. 
She  died  some  days  since,  in  a  convent  to  which  she  had 
retired." 

Isaura  had  no  cause  to  mourn  the  dead,  but  she  felt  a 
shock  in  the  suddenness  of  this  information  ;  and,  in  that 
sweet  spirit  of  womanly  compassion  which  entered  so  largely 
into  her  character,  and  made  a  part  of  her  genius  itself,  she 
murmured  tearfully,  "  The  poor  Signora  !  Why  could  I  not 
have  been  with  her  in  illness  .''  She  might  then  have  learned 
to  love  me.  And  she  died  in  a  convent,  you  say  ?  Ah,  her  re- 
ligion was  then  sincere  !     Her  end  was  peaceful  ?  " 

"  Let  us  not  doubt  that,  Mademoiselle.  Certainly  she  lived 
to  regret  any  former  errors,  and  her  last  thought  was  directed 
towards  such  atonement  as  might  be  in  her  power.  And  it 
is  that  desire  of  atonement  which  now  strangely  mixes  me  up, 
Mademoiselle,  in  your  destinies.  In  that  desire  for  atone- 
ment, she  left  to  my  charge,  as  a  kinsman  distant  indeed, 
but  still,  perhaps,  the  nearest  with  v/hom  she  was  personally 
acquainted — a  young  ward.  In  accepting  that  trust,  I  find 
myself  strangely  compelled  to  hazard  the  risk  of  offending 
you." 

"  Ofifending  me  .'*     How  ?     Pray  speak  openly." 

"  In  so  doing,  I  must  utter  the  name  of  Gustave  Rameau." 

Isaura  turned  pale  and  recoiled,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"  Did  he  inform  me  rightly  that,  in  the  last  interview  with 
him  three  days  ago,  you  expressed  a  strong  desire  that  the 
engagement  between  him  and  yourself  should  cease,  and  that 
you  only,  and  with  reluctance,  suspended  your  rejection  ot 
the  suit  he  had  pressed  on  you,  in  consequence  of  his  en- 
treaties, and  of  certain  assurances  as  to  the  changed  direction 
of  the  talents  of  which  we  will  assume  that  he  is  possessed  .-*  " 

"Well,  well.  Monsieur,"  exclaimed  Isaura,  her  whole  face 
brightening  ;  "  and  you  come  on  the  part  of  Gustave  Rameau 
to  say  that  on  reflection  he  does  not  hold  me  to  our  engage- 
ment— that  in  honor  and  in  conscience  I  am  free  ?  " 

"  I  see,"  answered  De  Maul^on,  smiling,  "  that  I  am  par- 


6o2  T^fl'  PARISIANS. 

donecl    already.       It   would   not   pain   you    if   such   were    my 
instructions  in  the  embassy  I  undertake  ?" 

"  Pain  me  !     No.     But " 

"  But  what .?  " 

"  Must  he  persist  in  a  course  which  will  break  his  mother's 
heart,  and  make  his  father  deplore  the  hour  that  he  was  born  "i 
Have  you  influence  over  him.  M.  de  Mauleon  ?  If  so,  will 
you  not  exert  it  for  his  good  1  " 

"  You  interest  yourself  still  in  his  fate,  Mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  do  otherwise  ?  Did  I  not  consent  to  share  it 
when  my  heart  shrank  from  the  thought  of  our  union  ?  And  now, 
when,  if  I  understand  you  rightly,  I  am  free,  I  cannot  but 
think  of  what  was  best  in  him." 

"  Alas  !  Mademoiselle,  he  is  but  one  of  many — a  spoilt 
child  of  that  Circe,  imperial  Paris.  Everywhere  I  look 
around  I  see  but  corruption.  It  was  hidden  by  the  halo 
which  corruption  itself  engenders.  The  halo  is  gone,  the 
corruption  is  visible.  Where  is  the  old  French  manhood  .-' 
Banished  from  the  heart,  it  comes  out  oaly  at  the  tongue. 
Were  our  deeds  like  our  words,  Prussia  would  beg  on  her 
knee  to  be  a  province  of  France.  Gustave  is  the  fit  poet 
for  this  generation.  Vanity — desire  to  be  known  for  some- 
thing, no  matter  what,  no  matter  by  whom — that  is  the  Par- 
isian's leading  motive  power ; — orator,  soldier,  poet,  all  alike. 
Utterers  of  fine  phrases ;  despising  knowledge,  and  toil,  and 
discipline ;  railing  against  the  Germans  as  barbarians,  against 
their  generals  as  traitors,  against  God  for  not  taking  their  part. 
What  can  be  done  to  weld  this  mass  of  hollow  bubbles  into  the 
solid  form  of  a  nation — the  nation  it  affects  to  be  ?  What 
generation  can  be  born  out  of  the  unmanly  race,  inebriate  with 
brag  and  absinthe  .''  Forgive  me  this  tirade  ;  I  have  been  review- 
ing the  battalion  I  command.  As  for  Gustave  Rameau, — if  we 
survive  the  siege,  and  see  once  more  a  government  that  can 
enforce  order,  and  a  public  that  will  refuse  renown  for  balder- 
dash,— I  should  not  be  surprised  if  Gustave  Rameau  were 
among  the  prettiest  imitators  of  Lamartine's  early  *  Meditations.' 
Had  he  been  born  under  Louis  XIV.  how  loyal  he  would  have 
been  !  What  sacred  tragedies  in  the  style  of  '  Athalie  '  he 
would  have  written,  in  the  hope  of  an  audience  at  Versailles  ! 
But  I  detain  you  from  the  letter  I  was  charged  to  deliver  to 
you.  I  have  done  so  purposely,  that  I  might  convince  myself 
that  you  welcome  that  release  which  your  too  delicate  sense  ol 
honor  shrank  too  long  from  demanding." 

Here  he  took  forth  and  placed  a  letter  in  Isaura's  hand, 


THE  PARISIANS.  603 

and,  as  if  to  allow  her  to  read  it  unobserved,  retired  to  the 
window-recess. 

Isaura  glanced  over  the  letter.     It  ran  thus  : — 

"I  feel  that  it  was  only  to  your  compassion  that  I  owed 
your  consent  to  my  suit.  Could  I  have  doubled  that  before, 
your  words  when  we  last  met  sufficed  to  con\Mice  me.  In  iny 
selfish  pain  at  the  moment,  I  committed  a  great  wrong.  I  would 
have  held  you  bound  to  a  promise  from  which  you  desired  to  be 
'ree.  Grant  me  pardon  for  that,  and  for  all  the  faults  by  which 
I  have  offended  you.  In  cancelling  our  engagement,  let  me 
hope  that  I  may  rejoice  in  your  friendship,  your  remembrance 
of  me,  some  gentle  and  kindly  thought.  My  life  may  hence- 
forth pass  out  of  contact  with  yours  ;  but  you  will  ever  dwell  in 
my  heart,  an  image  pure  and  holy  as  the  saints  in  whom  you 
may  well  believe — they  are  of  your  own  kindred." 

"  May  I  convey  to  Gustave  Rameau  any  verbal  reply  to  his 
letter  .-* "  asked  De  Mauleon,  turning  as  she  replaced  the  letter 
on  the  table. 

"  Only  my  wishes  for  his  welfare.  It  might  wound  him  if  I 
added,  my  gratitude  for  the  generous  manner  in  which  he  has 
interpreted  my  heart  and  acceded  to  his  desire." 

"  Mademoiselle,  accept  my  congratulations.  My  condo- 
lences are  for  the  poor  girl  left  to  my  guardianship.  Unhappily, 
she  loves  this  man  ;  and  there  are  reasons  why  I  cannot  with- 
hold my  consent  to  her  union  with  him,  should  he  demand  it, 
now  that,  in  the  letter  remitted  to  you,  he  has  accepted  your 
dismissal.  If  I  can  keep  him  out  of  all  the  follies  and  all  the 
evils  into  which  he  suffers  his  vanity  to  mislead  his  reason,  I 
will  do  so  ; — would  I  might  say,  only  in  compliance  with  your 
compassionate  injunctions.  But  henceforth  the  infatuation  of 
my  ward  compels  me  to  take  some  interest  in  his  career.  Adieu, 
Mademoiselle  !     I  have  no  fear  for  your  happiness  now." 

Left  alone,  Isaura  stood  as  one  transfigured.  All  the  blooi^ 
of  her  youth  seemed  suddenly  restored.  Round  he.r  red  lips 
the  dimples  opened,  countless  mirrors  of  one  happy  smile.  "  I 
am  free,  I  am  free,"  she  murmured — "  joy,  joy  !  "  and  she  passed 
from  the  room  to  seek  the  Venosta,  singing  clear,  singing  loua, 
as  a  bird  that  escapes  from  the  cage  and  warbles  to  the  heaven 
it  regains  the  blissful  tale  of  its  release. 


6o4  THE  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

In  proportion  to  the  nearer  roar  of  the  besiegers'  cannon, 
and  the  sharper  gripe  of  famine  within  the  walls,  the  Parisians 
seemed  to  increase  their  scorn  for  the  skill  of  the  enemy,  and 
their  faith  in  the  sanctity  of  the  capital.  All  false  news  was 
believed  as  truth  ;  all  truthful  news  abhorred  as  falsehoods. 
Listen  to  the  groups  round  the  cafes.  "  The  Prussian  funds 
have  fallen  three  per  cent,  at  Berlin,"  says  a  threadbare  ghost 
of  the  Bourse  (he  had  been  a  clerk  at  Louvier's).  "  Ay,"  cries 
a  National  Guard,  "  read  extracts  from  '  La  Liberte.'  The  bar- 
barians are  in  despair.  Nancy  is  threatened,  Belfort  freed. 
Bourbaki  is  invading  Baden.  Our  fleets  are  pointing  their  can- 
non upon  Hamburg.  Their  country  endangered,  their  retreat 
cut  off,  the  sole  hope  of  Bismarck  and  his  trembling  legions  is 
to  find  a  refuge  in  Paris,  The  increasing  fury  of  the  bombard- 
ment is  a  proof  of  their  despair." 

"  In  that  case,"  whispered  Savarin  to  De  Breze,  "  suppose 
we  send  a  flag  of  truce  to  Versailles  with  a  message  from  Trochu 
that,   on  disgorging  their  conquests,  ceding  the  left  bank  of 
the  Rhine,  and  paying  the  expenses  of  the  war,  Paris,  ever  mag 
nanimous  to  the  vanquished,  will  allow  the  Prussians  to  retire." 

"  The  Prussians  !  Retire  !  "  cried  Edgar  Ferrier.  catching 
the  last  word  and  glancing  fiercely  at  Savarin.  "  What  Prus- 
sian spy  have  we  among  us  ?  Not  one  of  the  barbarians  shall 
escape.  We  have  but  to  dismiss  the  traitors  who  have  usurped 
the  government,  proclaim  the  Commune  and  the  rights  of  labor, 
and  we  give  birth  to  a  Hercules  that  even  in  its  cradle  can 
strangle  the  vipers." 

Edgar  Ferrier  was  the  sole  member  of  his  political  party 
among  the  group  which  he  thus  addressed  ;  but  such  was  th'' 
terror  which  the  Communists  already  began  to  inspire  among  the 
bourgeoisie  that  no  one  volunteered  a  reply.  Savarin  linked  his 
arm  in  De  Brdz^'s,  and  prudently  drew  him  off. 

"  I  suspect,"  said  the  former,  "  that  we  shall  soon  have 
worse  calamities  to  endure  than  the  Prussian  obus  and  the  black 
loaf.     The  Communists  will  have  their  day." 

"  I  shall  be  in  my  grave  before  then,"  said  De  Bi^z^,  in 
bollow  accents.     "  It  is  twenty-four  hours  since  I  spent  my  las< 


THE  PARISIAXS.  60- 

fiUy  sous  on  the  purchase  of  a  rat,  and  I  burnt  the  legs  of  my 
bedstead  for  the  fuel  by  which  that  quadruped  was  roasted." 

"  Entre  nous,  my  poor  friend,  I  am  much  in  the  same  con- 
dition," haid  Savarin,  with  a  ghastly  attempt  at  his  old  j)leasant 
laugh.  "  See  how  I  am  shruken  !  My  wife  would  be  unfaithful 
to  the  Savarin  of  her  dreams  if  she  accepted  a  kiss  from  the 
slender  gallant  you  behold  in  me.  But  I  thought  you  were  in 
the  National  Guard,  and  therefore  had  not  to  vanish  into  air." 

"  I  was  a  National  Guard,  but  I  could  not  stand  the  hard- 
ships ;  and,  being  above  the  age,  obtained  my  exemption.  As 
to  pay,  I  was  then  too  proud  to  claim  my  wage  of  one  franc 
twenty-five  centimes.  I  should  not  be  too  proud  now.  Ah, 
blessed  be  Heaven !  Here  comes  Lemercier ;  he  owes  me  a 
dinner — he  shall  pay  it.  Bon-jour,  my  dear  Frederic  !  How 
handsome  you  look  in  your  kepi !  Your  uniform  is  brilliantly 
fresh  from  the  soil  of  powder.  What  a  contrast  to  the  tatter- 
demalions of  the  Line  !  " 

"  I  fear,"  said  Lemercier,  ruefully,  "  that  my  costume  will 
not  look  so  well  a  day  or  two  hence.  I  have  just  had  news 
that  will  no  doubt  seem  very  glorious — in  the  newspapers. 
But  then  newspapers  are  not  subjected  to  cannon-balls." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  answered  De  Br^ze. 

"  I  met,  as  I  emerged  from  my  apartment  a  few  minutes 
ago,  that  fire-eater  Victor  de  Mauleon,  who  always  contrives  to 
know  what  passes  at  headquarters.  He  told  me  that  prepara- 
tions are  being  made  for  a  great  sortie.  Most  probably  the 
announcement  will  appear  in  a  proclamation  to-morrow,  and 
our  troops  march  forth  to-morrow  night.  The  National  Guard 
(fools  and  asses  who  have  been  yelling  out  for  decisive  action) 
are  to  have  their  wish,  and  to  be  placed  in  the  van  of  battle, — 
among  the  foremost,  the  battalion  in  which  I  am  enrolled. 
Should  this  be  our  last  meeting  on  earth,  say  that  Frederic 
Lemercier  has  finished  his  part  in  life  with  eclat." 

"  Gallant  friend,"  said  De  Bre'ze',  feebly  seizing  him  by  the 
arm,  "  if  it  be  true  that  thy  mortal  career  is  menaced,  die  as 
thou  hast  lived.  An  honest  man  leaves  no  debt  unpaid.  Thou 
owest  me  a  dinner." 

"  Alas  I  ask  of  me  what  is  possible.  I  will  give  thee  three 
however,  if  I  survive  and  regain  my  rentes.  But  to-day  I  have 
not  even  a  mouse  to  share  with  Fox." 

"  Fox  lives,  then  ?  "  cried  De  Br^z^,  with  sparkling  hungry 
eyes. 

"  Yes.  At  present  he  is  making  the  experiment  how  long 
an  animal  can  li\e  without  food." 


6o6  THE  PARISIANS. 

"  Have  mercy  upon  him,  poor  beast !  Terminate'his  pangg 
by  a  noble  death.  Let  him  save  thy  friends  and  thyself  from 
starring.  For  myself  alone  I  do  not  plead  ;  I  am  but  an  ama- 
teur in  polite  literature.  But  Savarin,  the  illustrious  Savarin, 
— in  criticisni  the  French  Longinus — in  poetry  the  Parisian 
Horace — in  social  life  the  genius  of  gayety  in  pantaloons, — 
contemplate  his  attenuated  frame  i  Shall  he  perish  for  want 
of  food  while  thou  hast  such  superfluity  in  thy  larder  1  I  ap- 
peal to  thy  heart,  thy  conscience,  thy  patriotism.  What,  in  the 
eyes  of  France,  are  a  thousand  Foxes  compared  to  a  single 
Savarin  .-•  " 

"  At  this  moment,"  sighed  Savarin,  "  I  could  swallow  any- 
thing, however  nauseous,  even  thy  flattery,  De  Bre'zc.  But, 
my  friend  Frederic,  thou  goest  into  battle — what  will  become 
of  Fox  if  thou  fall  ?  Will  he  not  be  devoured  by  strangers  .'' 
Surely  it  were  a  sweeter  thought  to  his  faithful  heart  to  furnish 
a  repast  to  thy  friends  ? — his  virtues  acknowledged,  his  mem- 
ory blest ! " 

"  Thou  dost  look  very  lean,  my  poor  Savarin  !  And  how 
hospitable  thou  wert  when  yet  plump!  "  said  Frederic,  pathet- 
ically. "  And  certainly,  if  I  live,  Fox  will  starve ;  if  I  am 
slain.  Fox  will  be  eaten.  Yet,  poor  Fox,  dear  Fox,  who  lay  on 
my  breast  when  I  was  frostbitten  !  No  ;  I  have  not  the  heart 
to  order  him  to  the  spit  for  you.     Urge  it  not." 

"  I  will  save  thee  that  pang,"  cried  De  Brezd.  "  We  are 
close  by  thy  rooms.  Excuse  me  for  a  moment  :  I  will  run  in 
and  instruct  thy  bonne P 

So  saying,  he  sprang  forward  with  an  elasticity  of  step 
which  no  one  could  have  anticipated  from  his  previous  languor, 
Frederic  would  have  followed,  but  Savarin  clung  to  him  whim- 
pering, "  Stay  ;  I  shall  fall  like  an  empty  sack,  without  the  sup- 
port of  thine  arm,  young  hero.  Pooh  !  of  course  De  Bre'ze  is 
,  only  joking — a  pleasant  joke.  Hist! — a  secret:  he  has 
moneys,  and  means  to  give  us  once  more  a  dinner  at  his  own 
cost,  pretending  that  we  dine  on  thy  dog.  He  was  planning 
this  when  thou  camest  up.  Let  him  have  his  joke,  and  we  shall 
liave  ^fcstin  de  Balthasar." 

"  Hein  !  "  said  Frederic,  doubtfully  ;  "  thou  art  sure  he  has 
no  designs  upon  Fox  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  except  in  regaling  us.  Donkey  is  not  bad, 
but  it  is  fourteen  francs  a  pound.  A  pullet  is  excellent,  but  it 
is  thirty  francs.  Trust  to  De  Brezd  ;  we  shall  have  donkey 
and  pullet,  and  Fox  shall  feast  on  the  remains." 

Before  Frederic  could  reply,  the  two  men  were  jostled  and 


THE  PAKISlAiXS.  Coj 

swept  on  by  a  sudden  rush  of  a  noisy  crowd  in  tlieir  rear. 
They  could  but  distinguish  the  words — Glorious  news — 
victory — Faidherbe — Chanzy.  But  these  words  were  sufficient 
to  induce  them  to  join  willingly  in  the  rush.  They  forgot  their 
hunger  ;  they  forgot  Fox.  As  they  were  hurried  on,  they  learned 
that  there  was  a  report  of  a  complete  defeat  of  the  Prussians 
by  FaiJherbe  near  Amiens, — of  a  still  more  decided  one  on  the 
Loire  by  Chanzy.  These  generals,  with  armies  flushed  with  tri- 
umph, were  pressing  on  towards  Paris  to  accelerate  the  de- 
struction of  the  hated  Germans.  How  the  report  arose  no  one 
exactly  knew.  All  believed  it,  and  were  making  their  way  to 
the  Hotel  de  Ville  to  hear  it  formallv  confirmed. 

Alas  !  before  they  got  there  they  were  met  by  another 
crowd  returning,  dejected  but  angry-.  No  such  news  had 
reached  the  government.  Chanzy  and  Faidherbe  were  no 
doubt  fighting  bravely,  with  every  probability  of  success  ; 
but 

The  Parisian  imagination  required  no  more.  "  We  should 
always  be  defeating  the  enemy,"  said  Savarin,  "  if  there  were 
not  always  a  ^z//;"  and  his  audience,  who,  had  he  so  expressed 
himself  ten  minutes  before,  would  have  torn  him  to  pieces,  now 
applauded  the  epigram,  and,  with  execrations  on  Trochu,  min- 
gled with  many  a  peal  of  painful  sarcastic  laughter,  vociferated 
and  dispersed. 

As  the  two  friends  sauntered  back  towards  the  part  of  the 
Boulevards  on  which  De  Breze  had  parted  company  with  them, 
Savarin  quitted  Lemercier  suddenly,  and  crossed  the  street  to 
accost  a  small  party  of  two  ladies  and  two  men  who  were  on 
their  way  to  the  Madeleine,  While  he  was  exchanging  a  few 
words  with  them,  a  young  couple  arm  in  arm,  passed  by  Lemer- 
cier,— the  man  in  the  uniform  of  the  National  Guard — uniform 
as  unsullied  as  Frederic's,  but  with  as  little  of  a  military  air  as 
can  well  be  conceived.  His  gait  was  slouching ;  his  head 
ben',  downwards.  He  did  not  seem  to  listen  to  his  companion, 
who  was  talking  with  quickness  and  vivacity,  her  fair  face  radi- 
ant with  smiles.  Lemercier  looked  after  them  as  they  passed 
by.  "  ..Sz/r  mo/i  ame,"  muttered  Frederic  to  himself,  "surely 
that  is  /a  belle  Julie  ;  and  she  has  got  back  her  truant  poet  at 
last!" 

While  Lemercier  thus  soliloquized,  Gustave,  still  looking 
down,  was  led  across  the  street  by  his  fair  companion,  and  into 
the  midst  of  the  little  group  with  whom  Savarin  had  paused  to 
speak.  Accidentally  brushing  against  Savarin  himself,  he  raised 
his  eyes  with  a  start,  about  to  mutter  some  conventional  apol- 


6o8  ^^^^  FARISIAA'S. 

og)',  when  Julie  felt  the  arm  on  which  she  leant  tremble  nerv- 
ously. Before  him  stood  Isaura,  the  Countess  de  Vandemar  by 
her  side  ;  her  two  other  companions,  Raoul  and  the  Abbe'  Vcrt- 
pre,  a  step  or  two  behind. 

Gustave  uncovered,  bowed  low,  and  stood  mute  and  still 
for  a  moment,  paralyzed  by  surprise  and  the  chill  of  a  painful 
shame. 

Julie's  watchful  eyes,  following  his,  fixed  themselves  on  the 
same  face.  On  the  instant  she  divined  the  truth.  She  beheld 
her  to  whom  she  had  owed  months  of  jealous  agony,  and  over 
whom,  poor  child,  she  thought  she  had  achieved  a  triumph. 
But  the  girl's  heart  was  so  instinctively  good  that  the  sense  of 
triumph  was  merged  in  a  sense  of  compassion.  Her  rival  had 
lost  Gustave.  To  Julie  the  loss  of  Gustave  was  the  loss  of  all 
that  makes  li-fe  worth  having.  On  her  part,  Isaura  was  moved 
not  only  by  the  beauty  of  Julie's  countenance,  but  still  more  by 
the  childlike  ingenuousness  of  its  expression. 

So,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  met  the  child  and  the 
step-child  of  Louise  Duval, — each  so  deserted,  each  so  left 
alone  and  inexperienced  amid  the  perils  of  the  world,  with  fates 
so  dift'erent,  typifying  orders  of  Womanhood  so  opposed.  Isaura 
was  naturally  the  first  to  break  the  silence  that  weighed  like  a 
sensible  load  on  all  present. 

She  advanced  towards  Ramcau,  with  sincere  kindness  in 
her  look  and  tone. 

"  Accept  my  congratulations,"  she  said,  with  a  grave  smile. 
"  Your  mother  informed  me  last  evening  of  your  nuptials. 
Without  a  doubt  1  see  Madame  Gustave  Rameau  ;  " — and  she 
extended  her  hand  towards  Julie.  The  poor  Ondine  shrank 
back  for  a  moment,  blushing  up  to  her  temples.  It  was  the  first 
hand  which  a  woman  of  spotless  character  had  extended  to  her 
since  she  had  lost  the  protection  oi  Madame  Surville.  She 
touched  it  timidly,  humbly,  then  drew  her  bridegroom  on.  and, 
with  head  more  downcast  than  Gustave,  passed  through  the 
group  without  a  word. 

She  did  not  speak  to  Gustave  till  they  were  out  of  sight  and 
hearing  of  those  they  had  left.  Then,  pressing  his  arm  passion- 
ately, she  said,  "  And  that  is  the  demoiselle  thou  hast  resigned 
for  me  I  Do  not  deny  it.  I  am  so  glad  to  have  seen  her  ;  it 
has  done  me  so  much  good.  How  it  has  deepened,  purified, 
my  love  for  thee  !  I  have  but  one  return  to  make  ;  but  that  is 
my  whole  life.  Thou  shalt  never  have  cause  to  blame  me— 
never — never  I  " 


THE  PARISIANS. 


609 


Savaiin  looked  very  grave  and  thoughtful  when  he  rejoined 
Lemercier. 

"  Can  I  believe  my  eyes  ?  "  said  Frederic.  "  Surely  that 
was  Julie  Caumartin  leaning  on  Gustave  Rameau's  arm  !  And 
had  he  the  assurance,  so  accompanied,  to  salute  Madame  de 
Vanderaar,  and  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  to  whom  I  understood 
he  was  affianced  ?  Nay,  did  I  not  see  Mademoiselle  shake 
hands  with  the  Ondine  ?  or  am  I  under  one  of  the  illusions 
which  famine  is  said  to  engender  in  the  brain  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  strength  now  to  answer  all  these  lUterroga- 
tives.  I  have  a  story  to  tell ;  but  I  keep  it  for  dinner.  Let 
us  hasten  to  thy  apartment.  De  Brdzd  is  doubtless  there  await- 
ing us." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


Unprescient  of  the  perils  that  awaited  him,  absorbed  in 
the  sense  of  existing  discomfort,  cold  and  hunger,  Fox  lifted 
his  mournful  visage  from  his  master's  dressing-gown,  in  which 
he  had  encoiled  his  shivering  frame,  on  the  entrance  of  De 
Brezd  and  the  cojicierge  of  the  house  in  which  Lemercier  had 
his  apartment.  Recognizing  the  Vicomte  as  one  of  his  master's 
acquaintances,  he  checked  the  first  impulse  that  prompted  him 
to  essay  a  feeble  bark,  and  permitted  himself,  with  a  petulant 
whine,  to  be  extracted  from  his  covering  and  held  in  the  arms 
of  the  murderous  visitor. 

^^  Dieu  des  dieux  / "  &]diC\x\dXcd  De  Brdzd,  "how  light  the 
poor  beast  has  become  !  "  Here  he  pinched  the  sides  and 
thighs  of  the  victim.  "  Still,"  he  said,  "  there  is  some  flesh  yet 
on  these  bones.  You  may  grill  the  y>^\ws,  fn'casser  the  shoulders, 
and  roast  the  rest.  The  rog7ions  and  the  head  accept  for  your- 
self as  a  perquisite."  Here  he  transferred  Fox  to  the  arms  of 
the  coficiet'ge,  adding,  "  Vite  au  besogJte,  mon  amiy 

"  Yes,  Monsieur.  I  must  be  quick  about  it  while  my  wife 
is  absent.  She  has  a  faiblesse  for  the  brute.  He  must  be  on 
the  spit  before  she  returns." 

"  Be  it  so  ;  and  on  the  table  in  an  hour — five  o'clock  pre- 
cisely— I  am  famished." 

The  concierge  disappeared  with  Fox.  De  Brdzd  then 
amused  himself  by  searching  into  Frederic's  cupboards  and 
buffets,  from  which  he  produced  a  cloth  and  utensils  necessary 


6io  THE  PARISIANS. 

for  the  repast.  These  he  arranged  with  great  neatness,  and 
awaited  in  patience  the  moment  of  participation  in  the  feast 

The  hour  of  five  had  struck  before  Savarin  and  Frederic 
entered  the  salo7i ;  and  at  their  sight  De  Brdze  dashed  to  the 
staircase  and  called  out  to  the  concierge  to  serve  the  dinner. 

Frederic,  though  unconscious  of  the  Thyestean  nature  of 
the  banquet,  still  looked  round  for  the  dog ;  and,  not  perceiv- 
ing him,  began  to  call  out,  "  Fox  !  Fox !  where  hast  thou  hiddea 
thyself  ? " 

"  Tranquillize  yourself,"  said  De  Br^zd.  "  Do  not  suppose 
that  I  have  not     .... 


Note  by  the  Author's  Son.* — The  hand  that  wrote  thus  far  has  left 
unwritten  the  last  scene  of  the  tragedy  of  poor  Fox.  In  the  deep  where 
Prospero  has  dropped  his  wand  arc  now  irrevocably  buried  the  humor  and 
the  pathos  of  this  cynophagous  banquet.  One  detail  of  it,  however  which 
the  author  imparted  to  his  son,  may  here  be  faintly  indicated.  Let  the 
sympathizing  reader  recognize  all  that  is  dramatic  in  the  conflict  between 
hunger  and  affection  ;  let  him  recall  to  mind  the  lachrymose  Icving-kindness 
of  his  own  post-prandial  emotions  after  blissfully  breaking  some  fast,  less 
mercilessly  prolonged,  wc  will  hope,  than  that  of  these  besieged  banqueters  ; 
and  then,  though  unaided  by  the  fancy  which  conceived  so  quaint  a  situation, 
he  may  perhaj^s  imagine  what  tearful  tenderness  would  fill  the  eyes  of  the 
kind-hearted  Frederic,  as  they  contemplated  the  well-picked  bones  of  his 
sacrificed  favorite  on  the  platter  before  him  :  which  he  pushes  away,  sighing, 
"  Ah,  poor  Fox  !  how  he  would  have  enjoyed  those  bones  I " 

The  chapter  immediately  following  this  one  also  remains  unfinished.  It 
was  not  intended  to  close  the  narrative  thus  left  uncompleted ;  but  of  those 
many  and  so  various  works  which  have  not  unworthily  associated  with  al- 
most every  department  of  literature  the  name  of  a  single  English  writer,  it 
is  Chapter  the  Last.  Had  the  author  lived  to  finish  it,  he  would  doubt- 
less' have  added  to  his  Iliad  of  the  Siege  of  Paris  its  most  epic  episode,  by 
here  describing  the  mighty  combat  between  those  two  princes  of  the  Parisian 
Bourse,  the  magnanimous  Duplessis  and  the  redoubtable  Louvier.  Among 
the  few  other  pages  of  the  book  which  have  been  left  unwritten  we  must 
also  reckon  with  regret  some  page  descriptive  of  the  reconciliation  between 
Graham  Vane  and  Isaira  Cicogna ;  but,  fortunately  for  the  satisfaction  of 
every  reader  who  may  have  followed  thus  far  the  fortunes  of  "  The  Paris- 
ians," all  that  our  curiosity  is  chiefly  interested  to  learn  has  been  recorded 
in  the  Envoi,  which  was  written  before  the  completion  of  the  novel. 

We  know  not,  indeed,  what  has  become  of  those  two  Parisian  types  of  a 
Beauty  not  of  Holiness,  the  poor  vain  Poet  of  the  Pave,  and  the  good-hearted 
Ondine  of  the  Gutter.  It  is  obvious,  from  the  absence  of  all  allusion  to 
them  in  Lemercier's  letter  to  Vane,  that  they  had  passed  out  of  the  narra- 
tive before  that  letter  was  written.  We  must  suppose  the  catastrophe  of 
their  fates  to  have  been  described,  in  some  preceding  chapter,  by  the 
author  himself  ;  who  would  assuredly  not  have  left  M.  Gustave  Rameau  in 

*  See  prefatory  note. 


THE  PARTSrANS.  61 1 

prcrmanent  possession  of  his  ill-mcritcd  and  ill-ministercd  fortune,  'fhat 
French  representative  of  the  appropriately  popular  poetry  of  modern  ideas, 
which  prefers  "  the  roses  and  raptures  of  vice  "  to  "  the  lilies  and  languors 
of  virtue,"  cannot  have  been  irredeemably  reconciled  by  the  sweet  savors 
of  the  domestic /('Artw-yiv/,  even  when  spiced  with  pungent  whiffs  of  repu- 
diated disreputability,  to  any  selSsh  Ijctrayal  of  the  cause  of  universal  social 
emancipation  from  the  personal  proprieties.  If  poor  fulie  Caumartln  has 
perished  in  the  siege  of  Paris  with  all  the  grace  of  a  self-wrought  rcdem))- 
tion  still  upon  her,  we  shall  doubtless  deem  her  fate  a  happier  one  than  any 
sl-.e  could  have  found  in  prolonged  existence  as  Madame  Rameau  ;  and  a 
certain  modicum  of  this  world's  good  things  will,  in  that  case,  have  been 
rescued  for  worthier  employment  by  Graham  Vane.  To  that  assurance 
nothing  but  Lemercier's  description  of  the  fate  of  Victor  dc  Maulc'on 
(which  will  be  found  in  the  Envoi)  need  be  added  for  the  satisfaction  of  our 
sense  of  poetic  justice ;  and  if  on  the  mimic  stage,  from  which  they  now  dis- 
appear, all  these  puppets  have  rightly  played  their  parts  in  the  drama  of 
an  empire's  fall,  each  will  have  helped  "  to  point  a  moral  "  as  well  as  to 
"  adorn  a  tale  "     Valdc  ct  phutdite  ! 


CHAPTER  THE  LAST. 


Among  the  refugees  which  the  convoi  from  Versailles  dis- 


gorged on  the  Paris  station  were  two  men,  who,  in  pushing 
through  the  crowd,  came  suddenly  face  to  face  with  each 
other. 

"  Aha  !  Bon-jour^  M.  Duplessis,"  said  a  burly  voice. 

"  Bo7i-jout\  M.  Louvier,"  replied  Duplessis. 

"  How  long  have  you  left  Bretagne  .''  " 

"On  the  day  that  the  news  of  the  armistice  reached  it,  in 
order  to  be  able  to  enter  Paris  the  first  day  its  gates  were  open. 
And  you — where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"  In  London." 

"  Ah  !  in  London  !  "  said  Duplessis,  paling,  "  I  knew  I 
had  an  enemy  there." 

"  Enemy  !  I  ?  Bah  !  my  dear  Monsieur.  What  makes  you 
jllink  me  your  enemy  ?  " 

'•'•  I  remember  your  threats." 

'■'•  A  propos  oi  Rochebriant.  By  the  way,  when  would  it  be 
convenient  to  you  and  the  dear  Marquis  to  let  me  into  prompt 
possession  of  that  property  ?  You  can  no  longer  pretend  to- 
buy  it  as  a  dot  for  Madeinoiselle  Valerie." 

"  I  know  not  that  yet.  It  is  true  that  all  the  financial  opera- 
tions attempted  by  my  agent  in  London  have  failed.  But  I 
may  recover  myself  yet,   now   that  I   re-enter  Paris.     In   the 


6l2  THE  PARISIANS. 

meantime,  we  have  still  six  months  before  us  ;  for,  as  you  will 
find — if  you  know  it  not  already — the   interest   due  to  you  has 

been  lodged  with  Messrs. of ,  and  you  cannot  foreclose, 

even  if  the  law  did  not  take  into  consideration  the  national 
calamities  as  between  debtor  and  creditor." 

"  Quite  true.  But  if  you  cannot  buy  the  property  it  must 
pass  into  my  hands  in  a  very  short  time.  And  you  and  the 
Marquis  had  better  come  to  an  amicable  arrangement  with  me. 
Apropos,  I  read  in  the  'Times'  newspaper  that  Alain  was 
among  the  wounded  in  the  sortie  of  December." 

"Yes;  we  learnt  that  through  a  pigeon-post.  We  weic 
afraid     .... 


L'ENVOI. 

The  intelligent  reader  will  perceive  that  the  story  I  relate 
is  virtually  closed  with  the  preceding  chapter  ;  though  I   re- 
joice to  think  that  what  may  be   called  its  plot  does   not  find 
its  denouement  amidst  the  crimes   and  the   frenzy  of  the  Guerre 
des  Communeaiix.     Fit  subjects  these,  indeed,  for  the  social  an- 
nalist in  times  to  come.     When  crimes  that  outrage  humanity 
have  their  motive  or  their  excuse  in  principles  that  demand 
the  demolition  of  all  upon  which  the  civiTization  of  Europe  has 
its  basis — worship,  property,  and  marriage — in  order  to  recon- 
struct a  new  civilization    adapted  to    a  new  humanity,   it  is 
scarcely  possible  for  the   serenest  contemporary  to  keep  his 
mind  in  that  state  of  abstract  reasoning  with  which  Philosophy 
deduces  from  some  past  evil  some  existent  good.    For  my  part, 
I  believe  that  throughout  the  whole  known  history  of  mankind, 
even  in  epochs  when  reason  is  most  misled  and  conscience 
most  perverted,  there  runs  visible,  though  fine  and  threadlike,the 
chain  of  destiny,  which  has  its  roots  in  the  throne  of  an  All-wise 
and  All-good ;  that  in  the  wildest  illusions  by  which  multitudes 
are  frenzied,  there  may  be  detected  gleams  of  prophetic  truths  ; 
that  in  the  fiercest  crimes  which,  like  the   disease  of  an  epi- 
demic, characterize  a  peculiar  epoch  under  abnormal    circum- 
stances, there  might  be  found  instincts  or  aspirations  towards 
some  social  virtues  to  be  realized  ages   afterwards  by  happier 
generations,  all  tending  to  save  man  from  despair  of  the  future, 
were  the  whole  society  to  unite  for  the  joyless  hour  of  his  race 
in  the  abjuration  of  soul  and  the   denial  of  God,  because  all 
irresistibly  establishing  that  yearning  towards  an  unseen  future 
which  is  the  leading  attribute  of  soul,  evincing  the  government 


THE  PARISIANS.  6l, 

of  a  divine  Tliouglu  wliich  evolves  out  of  the  discords  of  one 
age  the  harmonies  of  another,  and,  in  the  world  within  us  as  in 
the  world  without,  enforces  upon  every  unclouded  reason  the 
distinction  between  Providence  and  Chance. 

The  account  subjoined  may  suffice  to  say  all  that  rests  to 
be  said  of  those  individuals  in  whose  fate,  apart  from  the  events 
or  personages  that  belong  to  graver  history,  the  reader  of  this 
work  may  have  conceived  an  interest.  It  is  translated  from 
the  letter  of  Frederic  Lemercier  to  Graham  Vane,  dated  June 
,  a  month  after  the  defeat  of  the  Comminists. 

"  Dear  and  distinguished  Englishman,  whose  name  I  honor 
but  fail  to  pronounce,  accept  my  cordial  thanks  for  your  inter- 
est in  such  remains  of  Frederice  Lemercier  as  yet  survive  the 
ravages  of  Famine,  Equality,  Brotherhood,  Petroleum,  and  the 
Rights  of  Labor.  I  did  not  desert  my  Paris  when  M.  Thiers, 
'•paninda  noii  bme  relic ta,^  led  his  sagacious  friends  and  his 
valiant  troops  to  the  groves  of  Versailles,  and  confided  to  us 
unarmed  citizens  the  preservation  of  order  and  property  from 
the  insurgents  whom  he  left  in  possession  of  our  forts  and  can- 
non. I  felt  spellbound  by  the  interest  of  the  sinistre  mclodraftu:'' 
with  its  quick  succession  of  scenic  effects  and  the  metropolis 
of  the  world  for  its  stage.  Taught  by  experience,  I  did  not  as- 
pire to  be  an  actor  ;  and  even  as  a  spectator,  I  took  care 
neither  to  hiss  nor  applaud.  Imitating  your  happy  England,  I 
observed  a  strict  neutrality,  and,  safe  myself  from  danger,  left 
my  best  friends  to  the  care  of  the  gods. 

"  As  to  political  questions,  I  dare  not  commit  myself  to  a 
conjecture.  At  this  rouge-et-jioir  table,  all  I  can  say  is,  that 
whichever  card  turns  up,  it  is  either  a  red  or  a  black  one.  One 
gamester  gains  for  the  moment  by  the  loss  of  the  other  ;  the 
table  eventually  ruins  both. 

"  No  one  believes  that  the  present  form  of  government  can 
last ;  every  one  differs  as  to  that  which  can.  Raoul  de  Vande- 
mar  is  irrmovably  convinced  of  the  restoration  of  the  Bour- 
bons. Savarin  is  meditating  a  new  journal  devoted  to  the 
cause  of  the  Count  of  Paris.  De  Breze  and  the  old  Count  de 
Passy,  having  in  turn  espoused  and  opposed  every  prev.ous 
form  of  government,  naturally  go  in  for  a  perfectly  novel  ex- 
periment, and  are  for  constitutional  dictatorship  under  the  Due 
d'Aumale,  which  he  is  to  hold  at  his  own  pleasure,  and  ulti- 
mately resign  to  his  nephew  the  Count,  under  the  mild  title  of 
a  constitutional  king  ; — that  is,  if  it  ever  suits  the  pleasure  of  a 
dictator  to  depose  himself.  To  me  this  seems  the  wildest  of 
notions.      If   the    Due's    adniinistration  were   successful,   the 


6i4  THE  PARISIANS. 

French  would  insist  on  keeping  it ;  and  if  the  uncle  were  un- 
successful, the  nephew  would  not  have  a  chance.  Duplessis 
retains  his  faith  in  the  Imperial  dynasty ;  and  that  Imperialist 
party  is  much  stronger  than  it  appears  on  the  surface.  So 
many  of  the  bourgeoisie  recall  with  a  sigh  eighteen  years  of 
prosperous  trade  ;  so  many  of  the  military  officers,  so  many 
of  the  civil  officials,  identify  their  career  with  the  Napoleonic 
favor  ;  and  so  many  of  the  Priesthood,  abhorring  the  Republic, 
always  liable  to  pass  into  the  hands  of  those  who  assail  reli- 
gion,— unwilling  to  admit  the  claim  of  the  Orleanists,  are  at 
heart  for  the  Empire. 

'■■  But  I  will  tell  you  one  secret.  I  and  all  the  quiet  folks 
like  me  (we  are  more  numerous  than  any  one  violent  faction) 
are  willing  to  accept  any  form  of  government  by  which  we 
have  the  best  chance  of  keeping  our  coats  on  our  backs.  Lib- 
erie., Egalite,  Fraternite  are  gone  quite  out  of  fashion  ;  and 
Mademoiselle has  abandoned  her  great  chant  of  the  Mar- 
seillaise, and  is  drawing  tears  from  enlightened  audiences  by 
her  pathetic  delivery  of  '  O  Richard !  O  mon  roif 

"  Now  about  the  other  friends  of  whom  you  ask  for  news. 

"  Wonders  will  never  cease.  Louvier  and  Duplessis  are 
no  longer  deadly  rivals.  They  have  become  sworn  friends, 
and  are  meditating  a  great  speculation  in  common  as  soon 
as  the  Prussian  debt  is  paid  off.  Victor  de  Mauleon  brought 
about  this  reconciliation  in  a  single  interview  during  the  brief 
interregnum  between  the  Peace  and  the  Guerre  des  Comrnu- 
neaux.  You  know  how  sternly  Louvier  was  bent  upon  seizing 
Alain  de  Rochebriant's  estates.  Can  you  conceive  the  true 
cause  ?  Can  you  imagine  it  possible  that  a  hardened  money- 
maker like  Louvier  should  ever  allow  himself  to  be  actuated, 
one  way  or  the  other,  by  the  romance  of  a  sentimental  wrong  ? 
Yet  so  it  was.  It  seems  that  many  years  ago  he  was  desper- 
ately in  love  with  a  girl  who  disappeared  from  his  life,  and  whom 
he  believed  to  have  been  seduced  by  the  late  Marquis  de  Roche- 
briant.  It  was  in  revenge  for  this  supposed  crime  that  he 
had  made  himself  the  principal  mortgagee  of  the  late  Mar- 
quis, and,  visiting  the  sins  of  the  father  on  the  son,  had,  un- 
der the  infernal  disguise  of  friendly  interest,  made  hinisclf 
sole  mortgagee  to  Alain,  upon  terms  apparently  the  most 
generous.  The  demon  soon  showed  his  griffe,  and  was  about 
to  foreclose,  when  Duplessis  came  to  Alain's  relief  ;  and  Roche- 
briant  was  to  be  VaMrie's  dot  on  her  marriage  with  Alain. 
The  Prussian  war,  of  course,  supended  all  such  plans,  pecu- 
niary and  matrimonial.     Duplessis,  whose  resources  were  terribly 


THE  PARISIANS.  615 

crippled  by  the  war,  attempted  operations  in  London  with  a 
view  of  raising  the  sum  necessary  to  pay  off  the  mortgage  ; — 
found  himself  strangely  frustrated  and  baflled.  Louvier  was 
in  London,  and  defeated  his  rival's  agent  in  every  speculation. 
It  became  impossible  for  Duplessis  to  redeem  the  mortgage. 
The  two  men  came  to  Paris  with  the  peace.  Louvier  deter- 
mined both  to  seize  the  Breton  lands  and  to  complete  the  ruin 
of  Duplessis ;  when  he  learned  from  De  Maule'on  that  he  had 
spent  half  his  life  in  a  baseless  illusion  ;  that  Alain's  father 
was  innocent  of  the  crime  for  which  his  son  was  to  suffer  ; — 
and  Victor,  with  that  strange  power  over  men's  minds  which 
was  so  peculiar  to  him,  talked  Louvier  into  mercy,  if  not  into 
repentance.  In  short,  the  mortgage  is  to  be  paid  off  by  in- 
stallments at  the  convenience  of  Duplessis.  Alain's  marriage 
with  Vale'rie  is  to  take  place  in  a  few  weeks.  The  founiis- 
senrs  are  already  gone  to  tit  up  the  old  chateau  for  the  bride, 
and  Louvier  is  invited  to  the  wedding. 

"  I  have  all  this  story  from  Alain,  and  from  Duplessis  him- 
self. I  tell  the  tale  as  'twas  told  to  me,  with  all  the  gloss  of 
sentiment  upon  its  woof.  But,  between  ourselves,  I  am  too 
Parisian  not  to  be  skeptical  as  to  the  unalloyed  amiability  of 
sudden  conversions.  And  I  suspect  that  Louvier  was  no  lon- 
ger in  a  condition  to  indulge  in  the  unprofitable  whim  of  turn- 
ing rural  seigneur.  He  had  sunk  large  sums  and  incurred 
great  liabilities  in  the  new  street  to  be  called  after  his  name ; 
and  that  street  has  been  twice  ravaged,  first  by  the  Prussian 
siege,  and  next  by  the  Guerre  des  Commiineaux  ;  and  I  can  de- 
tect many  reasons  why  Louvier  should  deem  it  prudent  not 
only  to  withdraw  from  the  Rochebriant  seizure,  and  make 
sure  of  peacefully  recovering  the  capital  lent  on  it,  but  establish- 
ing joint  interest  and  quasi  partnership  with  a  financier  so 
brilliant  and  successful  as  Armand  Duplessis  has  hitherto 
been. 

"  Alain  himself  is  not  quite  recovered  from  his  wound,  and 
is  now  at  Rochebriant,  nursed  by  his  aunt  and  Valerie,  [ 
have  promised  to  visit  him  next  week.  Raoul  de  Vandemar 
IS  still  at  Paris  with  his  mother,  saying  there  is  no  place  where 
tme  Christian  man  can  be  of  such  service.  The  old  Count 
declines  to  come  back,  saying  there  is  no  place  where  a  philos- 
opher can  be  in  such  danger. 

"  I  reserve  as  my  last  communication,  in  reply  to  your 
questions,  that  which  is  the  gravest.  You  say  that  you  saw 
in  the  public  journals  brief  notice  of  the  assassination  of  Vic- 


6i6  THE  PARISIANS 

tor  de  MaulJon ,  and  you  ask  for  such  authentic  particulars  as 
I  can  give  of  that  event,  and  of  the  motives  of  the  assassin. 

"  I  need  not,  of  course,  tell  you  how  bravely  the  poor 
Vicomte  behaved  throughout  the  siege  ;  but  he  made  many 
enemies  among  the  vi^orst  members  of  the  National  Guard  by 
the  severity  of  his  discipline  :  and  had  he  been  caught  by  the 
mob  the  same  day  as  Clement  Thomas,  who  committed  the 
same  offense,  would  have  certainly  shared  the  fate  of  that  gen- 
eral. Though  elected  a  deptite,  he  remained  at  Paris  a  few 
days  after  Thiers  &  Co.  left  it,  in  the  hope  of  persuading  the 
party  of  Order,  including  then  no  small  portion  of  the  Nation- 
al Guard,  to  take  prompt  and  vigorous  measures  to  defend 
the  city  against  the  Communists.  Indignant  at  their  pusillani- 
mity, he  then  escaped  to  Versailles.  There  he  more  than 
confirmed  the  high  reputation  he  had  acquired  during  the 
siege,  and  impressed  the  ablest  public  men  with  the  belief  that 
he  was  destined  to  take  a  very  leading  part  in  the  strife  of  par- 
ty. When  the  Versailles  troops  entered  Paris,  he  was,  of 
course,  among  them  in  command  of  a  battalion. 

"  He  escaped  safe  through  that  horrible  war  of  barricades, 
though  no  man  more  courted  danger.  He  inspired  his  men 
with  his  own  courage.  It  was  not  till  the  revolt  was  quenched 
on  the  evening  of  the  28th  May  that  he  met  his  death.  The 
Versailles  soldiers,  naturally  exasperated,  were  very  prompt 
in  seizing  and  shooting  at  once  every  passenger  who  looked 
like  a  foe.  Some  men  under  De  Maule'on  had  seized  ujoon 
one  of  these  victims,  and  were  hurrying  him  into  the  next 
street  for  execution,  when,  catching  sight  of  the  Vicomte,  he 
screamed  out,  '  Lebeau,  save  me  i ' 

"At  that  cry  De  Mauleon  rushed  forward,  arrested  his 
soldiers,  cried,  '  This  man  is  innocent — a  harmless  physician. 
I  answer  for  him.'  As  he  thus  spoke,  a  wounded  Communist, 
lying  in  the  gutter  amidst  a  heap  of  the  slain,  dragged  himself 
up,  reeled  towards  De  Mauleon,  plunged  a  knife  between  his 
shoulders,  and  dropped  down  dead. 

"The  Mcdecin  who  told  this  story  I  had  the  curiosity  to  see 
myself,  and  cross-question.  I  own  I  believe  his  statement. 
Whether  De  Mauleon  did  or  did  not  conspire  against  a  fallen 
dynasty,  to  which  he  owed  no  allegiance,  can  little  if  at  ail 
injure  the  reputation  he  has  left  behind  of  a  very  remarkable 
man — of  great  courage  and  great  abilit}' — who  might  have  had 
a  splendid  career  if  he  had  survived.  But,  as  Savarin  says 
truly,  the  first  bodies  which  the  car  of  revolution  cushes  down 
arc  those  which  first  harness  themselves  to  it. 


THE  PARISIANS. 


617 


"  Among  De  MauMon's  papers  is  the  programme  of  a  con 
stitution  fitted  for  France.     How  it  got  into  Savarin's  hands  I 
know  not.     De   Maule'on  left   no  will,  and  no  relations  came 
forward  to  claim  his  papers.     I  asked  Savarin  to  give  me  the 
heads  of  the  plan,  which  he  did.     lliey  are  as  follows  : — 

" '  The  American  republic  is  the  sole  one  worth  studying, 
for  it  has  lasted.  The  causes  of  its  duration  are  in  the  checks 
to  democratic  fickleness  and  disorder,  ist,  No  law  affecting 
the  Constitution  can  be  altered  without  the  consent  of  two- 
thirds  of  Congress.  2d,  To  counteract  the  impulses  natural 
to  a  popular  Assembly  chosen  by  universal  suffrage,  the  greater 
legislative  powers,  especially  in  foreign  affairs,  are  vested  in 
the  Senate,  which  has  even  executive  as  well  as  legislative 
functions.  3d,  The  chief  of  the  State,  having  elected  his 
government,  can  maintain  it  independ^it  of  hostile  majorities 
in  either  Assembly. 

"  These  three  principles  of  safety  to  form  the  basis  of  any 
new  constitution  for  France. 

"  '  For  France  it  is  essential  that  the  chief  magistrate,  under 
whatever  title  he  assume,  should  be  as  irresponsible  as  an 
English  sovereign.  Therefore  he  should  not  preside  at  his 
councils ;  he  should  not  lead  his  armies.  The  day  for  per- 
sonal government  is  gone,  even  in  Prussia.  The  safety  for 
order  in  a  State  is,  that  when  things  go  wrong  the  Ministry 
changes,  the  State  remains  the  same.  In  Europe,  Republican 
institutions  are  safer  where  the  chief  magistrate  is  hereditary 
than  where  elective.' 

"  Savarin  says  these  axioms  are  carried  out  at  length,  and 
argued  with  great  ability. 

"  I  am  very  grateful  for  your  proffered  hospitalities  in  Eng- 
land. Some  day  I  shall  accept  them,  viz.,  whenever  I  decide 
on  domestic  life,  and  the  calm  of  the  conjugal  foyer.  I  have 
a  pencha?tt  for  an  English  Mees,  and  am  not  exacting  as  to  the 
dot.  Thirty  thousand  livres  sterling  would  satisfy  me — a  trifle, 
I  believe,  to  you  rich  islanders. 

"  Meanwhile  I  am  naturally  compelled  to  make  up  for  the 
miseries  of  that  horrible  siege.  Certain  moralizing  journals 
tell  us,  that,  sobered  by  misfortune,  the  Parisians  are  going  to 
turn  over  a  new  leaf,  become  studious  and  reflective,  despise 
pleasure  and  luxury,  and  live  like  German  professors.  Don't 
believe  a  word  of  it.  My  conviction  is  that  whatever  may  be 
said  as  to  our  frivolity,  extravagance,  etc.,  under  the  Empire, 
we  shall  be  just  the  same  under  any  form  of  government — the 
bravest,  the  most  tiniid,  the  most  ferocious,  the  kindest-hearted, 


6i8  THE  PARISIANS. 

the  most  irrational,  the  most  intelHgent,  the  most  contradictory, 
the  most  consistent  people  whom  Jove,  taking  counsel  of  Venus 
and  the  Graces,  Mars  and  the  Furies,  ever  created  for  the  de- 
light and  terror  of  the  world; — in  a  word  the  Parisians. — Votre 
tout  devoue, 

"  Frederic  Lemercier.' 


It  is  a  lovely  noon  on  the  bay  of  Sorrento,  towards  the 
close  of  the  autumn  of  187 1.  Upon  the  part  of  the  craggy 
shore,  to  the  left  of  the  town,  on  which  her  first  perusal 
of  the  loveliest  poem  in  which  the  romance  of  Chris- 
tian heroism  has  ever  combined  elevation  of  thought  with 
silvery  delicacies  of  speech,  had  charmed  her  childhood,  re- 
clined the  young  bride  of  Graham  Vane.  They  were  in  the 
first  month  of  their  marriage.  Isaura  had  not  yet  recovered 
from  the  effects  of  all  that  had  preyed  upon  her  life,  from  the 
hour  in  which  she  had  deemed  that  in  her  pursuit  of  fame  she 
had  lost  the  love  that  had  colored  her  genius  and  inspired  her 
dreams,  to  that  in  which  *  *  *  * 

The  physicians  consulted  agreed  in  insisting  on  her  passing 
the  winter  in  a  southern  climate  ;  and  after  their  wedding, 
which  took  place  in  Florence,  they  thus  came  to  Sorrento. 

As  Isaura  is  seated  on  the  small  smoothed  rocklet,  Graham 
reclines  at  her  feet,  his  face  upturned  to  hers  with  an  inex- 
pressible wistful  anxiety  in  his  impassioned  tenderness.  "  You 
are  sure  you  feel  better  and  stronger  since  we  have  been 
here  ? " 


TKS   END. 


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